


All My Life's Buried Here

by Bear_cat



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe- Split Timeline, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Canon, Sad Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sad with a Happy Ending, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21527794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bear_cat/pseuds/Bear_cat
Summary: If Crowley could go back and choose his last words to Aziraphale, what would they be?Our side. There has only ever been our side.No, he'd tried that at the bandstand. Hadn't worked. Maybe,I've been in love with you for 6,000 years, please trust me here.Definitely not that- too fast, that.But the thing is- the thingis- he'd have gone fast if he'd known, to Hel- Heaven with it all. He'd tried to go slow, tried to give the angel the space he'd needed. Crowley knew Heaven had its claws sunk into him deep. He knew he would only push Aziraphale away with his unwanted declarations. But had he known it was his last chance, there'd have been no more 6k marathon for him. No, it would have been all 100m dash,I-love-you-more-than-I-ever-loved-Herspeed. But now he's stalled out, the race is over, the finish line is gone. Aziraphale is gone.--------A split timeline AU where Aziraphale and Crowley  were each the sole survivor of the Apocalype in their reality. They must learn to live their lives without their other half.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 101
Kudos: 211





	1. Act I, Part I

**Author's Note:**

> The name of the fic is from Oscar Wilde's poem Requiescat.
> 
> Also sorry in advance for all the angst, I swear there will be a happy ending, it's just gonna be a moment before we get there.

Crowley sprawled on the sofa, glass in hand, and sang to the ceiling, “I guess we drift alone in separate ways,” he slurred as Aziraphale's gramophone blasted through the shop, much louder than the angel would have ever let him get away with, “I don't have all that far to go! God knows I learnt to play the lonely man,” he downed his glass of wine and grumbled, “yeah, got that one down, haven't I. Hey, You listening? There's a limit, isn't there? How much farther do you want me to go?”

The music lilted around him and Crowley let himself get lost in it. “This is our last goodbye and very soon it will be over,” he sang, and he thought about goodbyes.

_When I'm up in the stars, I won't even think about you._

Those words have repeated in Crowley's head for half a century. _I won't even think about you._ Of course it had been a lie, spoken when he was at the end of his rope. Had he stopped a moment to consider they would be the last words he would ever speak to Aziraphale, he would have turned around and taken them back. He would never, never have let them slip from his traitorous tongue. He would have told Aziraphale the truth. _I have always, will always think about you._

Instead, Crowley was alone. It'd been fifty-odd years since Arma-whatever, and Crowley was a pile of fomen-fermen- drunken limbs, contemplating last words. If he could start again, do it over, what would he choose? _Our side. There has only ever been our side._ No, he'd tried that at the bandstand. Hadn't worked. Maybe, _I've been in love with you for 6,000 years, please trust me here._ Definitely not that- too fast, that.

But the thing is- the thing _is_ \- he'd have gone fast if he'd known, to Hel- Heaven with it all. He'd tried to go slow, tried to give the angel the space he'd needed. Crowley knew Heaven had its claws sunk into him deep. He knew he would only push Aziraphale away with his unwanted declarations. But had he known it was his last chance, there'd have been no more 6k marathon for him. No, it would have been all 100m dash, _I-love-you-more-than-I-ever-loved-Her_ speed. But now he's stalled out, the race is over, the finish line is gone. Aziraphale is gone.

Maybe Freddie had it right. “This is our last goodbye and very soon it will be over,” he belted out to the books, his voice cracking on the last bit, “but today just love me like there's no tomorrow.” That might have done.

Crowley poured more wine into his glass, missed, and stained the rug. He glared at the stain and it vanished, the wine conceding that the glass had been a safer place to land, after all. There wasn't enough wine in the world for him to douse the flames that burned away at this charred husk of him, but he'd yet to back down from the challenge. He downed the glass and sucked in a breath of dusty air- not ash, not fire, no. Leather and glue and a hint of cocoa. Adam had done a good job when he brought the shop back; if you didn't know better, you'd think nothing out of the ordinary had happened to this particular bookshop. Crowley knew better. Even so, he'd have to remember to thank the boy for getting the smell right.

A polite knocking jostled him from his thoughts. “The shop's closed!” He yelled over his shoulder, then muttered, “has been for decades, in case you haven't noticed.” Then he slithered further into the cushions, content to ignore the interruption. The knocking persisted. He propped himself on a wobbly elbow and peered at the offending door. “Oi, it's closed! Can't you read?” Crowley growled, but the rattling knocks only grew more insistent. And, really, didn't they know this had never been the place to come to purchase a book, anyway? He poured himself off the couch with a hiss, his tinder-quick temper lit.

“Mr. Crowley?” A voice called from outside, another few knocks thrown in for good measure. “I've got take-away.”

Crowley sighed, uncoiling, and briefly considered sobering up as he stumbled over the edge of the rug. He didn't, opting to throw open the door with an impressive flourish (yes, impressive, thank you very much). He turned and sauntered back to the couch without looking at his guest.

“Young Adam! Speak of the devil!”

Adam stepped through the door, carrying a brown paper bag. He looked around, and Crowley almost had enough pride to feel guilty at the state of the shop. Bottles lay strewn across every surface, and he may have forgotten to dust since the boy's last visit. But Aziraphale never dusted anyway, and he left stacks of books towering precariously left and right. Crowley was just putting his personal spin on it. He waved off the gramophone, at least, giving Adam a look that dared him to comment. Adam raised an eyebrow but did not comment. “M'Not a devil; not any more than you are.”

Crowley grated out a laugh, “I'm devil-ish,” he said moodily as he dropped unceremoniously back on the sofa.

Adam had given up his immortality at the airbase all those years ago, opting to live his life like a proper human. He attended university, got a job with an environmental law firm, married, had children, watched them grow up, and settled into retirement. It was all rather domestic for the ex-Antichrist, if you asked Crowley. Through it all, the boy had checked up on Crowley, coming by on these little visits when he could. Crowley never had the heart to turn him away. And at this point, he's the only one Crowley'd got left- the rest of their “Apocawhoops Team”, as they called themselves after, had passed on or moved away. And they'd all stayed in touch over the years, mostly at Adam's insistence, but none of them had understood each other quite like Adam and Crowley. As the only occult beings (or ex-occult in Adam's case) on the team, there was a sense of kinship between them. Adam held up the bag.

“Curry?”

“Yes, yes, come on then.” Crowley cleared the empty bottles from the table with a wave. Adam sat down in the armchair opposite and set about removing containers from the bag, looking pointedly at Crowley, who continued to stare, arms crossed petulantly. The demon rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses- more of a full-body motion to get his point across- before waving some plates and utensils into existence. For choosing mortality, Adam wasn't shy about exploiting the convenience of a quick miracle. He spooned some rice and chicken tikka masala onto each plate, placing one in front of Crowley. Crowley nodded a thanks, but stayed motionless.

They sat in companionable silence while Adam ate. This had become their ritual. Crowley didn't much know what to do with these visits. He got what Adam was doing, he really did, and he appreciated the effort. And to be fair to the boy, there were rare days where his visits did soothe the fires burning inside him. But they barely spoke- at least not of anything of consequence. Adam would catch Crowley up on his life, and it was all so fleeting, and Crowley was watching it pass faster than he was prepared for. He watched the boy, who was no longer a boy, eat his curry and wondered what would come after. Adam was the only being left on Earth Crowley gave a damn about. And human lives are so short-

Adam cleared his throat, bringing Crowley back to the present. “You know, I had a feelin' tandoori would have been more your style today. Should always go with your first instinct, that's what I say.” Adam said as he put down his plate.

Crowley huffed what almost passed as a laugh. “Maybe Thai next time.” He said, with an attempt at a smile that was made of too many teeth.

They exchanged a few words through the night, and Crowley tried his best to lift his spirits, for Adam's sake. The boy always looked him over with those too-knowing eyes, even though Crowley was sure he lost his omniscience with his immortality. Still, Crowley knew how he must look- his clothes rumpled, hair long and matted, and was that smell him? Probably should have miracled himself clean before letting a guest in. But Adam never said a word, never judged this wine-laden mess of him.

“And- and- the whales?”

“Oh,” Adam sighed, “they're alright. Under all sorts of protection now. No more of those fishin' boats to muck around with 'em. You know their population's risen-”

“Do they mate out of water?” Crowley cut him off.

“Uh,” Adam faltered, “No.”

“I knew it.” Definitely something about the young, then.

“I'd like to talk about Aziraphale,” Adam said, apropos of nothing, and suddenly Crowley was teetering at the edge of the ravine in his chest. He jolted to his feet, a cornered animal ready to strike.

“Don't.”

“Don't you think it's time you-”

“Definitely not. Out.” Crowley said, already making his way toward the door.

“Mr. Crowley-”

“No.” He swung the door open and made a sweeping gesture, “Out.”

“Are you ever going to-”

“ _No._ ”

Adam stared at him long and hard, a challenge in his eyes. Crowley slammed the door and paced back toward the couch, and Adam jumped up. Guilt clawed at Crowley for frightening him- he was a piss-poor demon.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Crowley, but I just think you need-” Crowley was in Adam's space before he could say another word. He knew he shouldn't get mad at the boy, but the dry, withered bits of him would catch on the smallest spark. And Adam might as well have taken a flamethrower to them.

“Why are you doing thisss? Why now? We've got a good thing going here, kid, why ruin it?”

Adam gave him that look again. “It's just that you've never talked about it. I've tried to be patient, but you know I'm not immortal. We don't have all the time in the world. If you don't talk about it with me, you might never get the chance.”

“What are you, my therapist?” He sneered.

“How 'bout your friend?” The fire flared briefly inside Crowley before burning out. The fight left him all at once, and he dropped his arms limply at his sides.

“I- I- can't.” He replied, his voice sounding so meek in his own ears.

With a sigh, Adam carefully lowered himself back into the armchair. “Is this what he would want? You wastin' away in here?”

“What he would want-” Crowley huffed, “He doesn't want anything anymore, does he?” He meant it to come out biting, but his voice broke at the end, and this was not how his night was meant to go, thank you very much. He waved another bottle- one of the good ones- from the cellar and filled his glass, and one for Adam. He threw himself back onto the couch, and they sat silently for a moment, Adam waiting and staring holes into him. Crowley stared back, hoping his serpentine gaze would intimidate the boy into backing off. It did not. He let his head fall back and stared up at the ceiling, instead, focusing on a waterstain that had been there since at least 1941.

“I told him I'd never think about him again. That's the last thing...” He trailed off, haunted. How was he meant to talk about this when just the thought of the angel's face in that moment was enough to make him fall apart?

“He must've known you didn't mean that.”

“Our side, I told him. We're on our side. And he chose them. And they burned him.” 

And just like that, it was as though no time had passed at all. Crowley was surrounded by flames all over again, the smoke burning at his lungs. _Bastards! All of you!_ He was splitting down the middle and burning up and- Go-Sat-Someone, was he crying? He swiped angrily at his eyes, and where were his blasted sunglasses?

“Angels were supposed to be the good guys.”

“Well, one of them was, at least.” Crowley swirled his drink in his glass and tried to blink the feeling of smoke from his eyes.

“I'm sorry,” Adam said, “If I'd known they were gonna to do that-”

“You were just a kid. Don't put it on yourself.”

“Y'know, I used to know some stuff back then. And I know he would have wanted you to let yourself be happy.”

“Demon,” he gestured to himself, “s'not really in the job description.”

“You're as proper a demon as I'm an Antichrist”

Adam watched him thoughtfully, and he scowled into his glass, hoping it would provide some insight. He didn't want to talk about Aziraphale. This was all feeling a bit Too Much. He felt tears pricking at his eyes again, so he vanished them into the Thames.

“I just wish She'd send him back.”

“Me, too, Mr. Crowley,” Adam said gently, “I've got a lot of people I wish that 'bout.”

“Well, you could have had the power to do all that, couldn't you?” The words slipped bitterly out of him without permission. “M'sorry, I didn't mean that.”

“S'okay. You're not wrong. I still reckon I made the right choice. The world wouldn't be a fair place if I went around decidin' who got to live or not.”

“It doesn't feel very fair as it is.” Crowley spit out petulantly, wincing at himself.

“S'pose it isn't. But I don' think I'd make much better of a God than the one we've got. I'd rather make the world better the human way. Maybe if you don' think it's fair, you could help make the world better in your own way.”

“How the Heaven do you suggest I do that?”

Adam shrugged and gave him a half-smile. “You're the one with superpowers. Maybe you could think 'bout how Aziraphale would have done it.”

The thought tore at the thing in his chest. He and Aziraphale had saved the world so that they could continue to enjoy all the best parts of it. For Crowley, so much of that was wrapped up in the angel that the world might as well have ended for him that day. But if Aziraphale was here, he would have been basking in the world they'd saved, not rotting away in the back of the bookshop.

“The world doesn't get to have Aziraphale,” Crowley growled, “they're stuck with me.” And that was the whole problem, wasn't it? It didn't matter what Aziraphale would have done if he was here, it didn't matter if he would be disappointed in Crowley for wallowing in self-pity. The world was stuck with this piss-poor excuse of a demon, and demons weren't made for miracles or goodness or nice feelings. He had lost the only light that had ever guided him toward those things.

Crowley was somehow able to lure the conversation back into safer waters, and the rest of the night passed without incident. When it was time to leave, Adam turned to him with one more stern look. “Just, think about what I said. You don' have to waste away in here forever.” With that, his lopsided smile was back, and he made his way out the door. “Thai next time!” He called over his shoulder.

.

_Crowley stared out over the desert from the wall of the Eastern gate, basking in the sunlight. He sat on the edge and let his feet dangle, marveling at the feeling of the breeze on his newly acquired toes. This whole Earth business wasn't so bad, especially considering his previous place of employment. Sure, he had to make some trouble to get up here, but he was still trying to puzzle out how knowledge could really be such a bad thing. If handing it over to the humans was the worst he had to do, he'd take the commendation for that one._

_“Oh,” a prim voice chimed from beside him, “you're still here.”_

_He leaned back on his elbows and gave the angel a lazy smile. “Why, is there somewhere better I ought to be?”_

_“Well, I just assumed you would have already gotten on to some other mischief.” The angel fussed with his robes nervously. Crowley looked him over- the shock of messy white hair, the perpetually worried brow, the immaculately clean hands. Was this really supposed to be his Adversary? The being looked better suited for a desk job, or one of the choirs, maybe. How was Crowley meant to antagonize something so seemingly harmless? He wrung his hands as he shot glances at Crowley. Crowley, in turn, realized he'd been staring a moment too long and shifted his gaze back out toward where the humans had vanished over the horizon._

_“There's only two of them,” he drawled, “wouldn't be much sport in it to cause them any more grief just yet.”_

_“Oh, well, that's actually rather nice-”_

_“Don't! Call me that!” Crowley hissed, darting glances around to make sure there wasn't any other angels or demons lurking around that had heard him. “A demon could get in a lot of trouble being called something like that.”_

_“Terribly sorry,” and somehow the angel managed to look even more flustered and apologetic than he had before, “that was careless of me, wasn't it?” His brows furrowed and his own gaze fluttered around them. He looked like a field mouse- a field mouse that had decided to approach a snake. It didn't make any sense, why was he even talking to a demon?_

_“What are you doing back here?” Crowley asked, suddenly suspicious._

_“I beg your pardon! This is my gate, isn't it?” The angel gave him a reproachful look, but there was no real fire in it._

_“Oh, is it? I was just thinking to myself, wasn't there meant to be an angel stationed up here somewhere? I was expecting a bit more thwarting.” His brain caught up with his tongue a moment too late. Go- Satan, how stupid could he be, why would he talk to an angel-_ a Principality- _like that? This particular angel might seem more like a librarian, but he had been stationed as a guard. Crowley shut his stupid mouth and prepared to be smited._

_“Oh, well, I suppose when there's a bit more wiling, there will be a bit more twarting to do.” Crowley's eyes darted up, caught off-guard, to see the angel was smiling tentatively. When he noticed Crowley looking at him, he schooled his face back into a scowl. He affected a stern voice, “Now, off my wall, you foul fiend, or I'll be forced to smite you. Which I would do most gladly, of course.”_

_Crowley meant to come up with some witty remark in return, but he was too busy dealing with this strange fluttering organ in his chest that had just tried to make an escape out through his throat. Instead, he just stared. Had this stuffy, nervous angel just_ teased _him?_

_He scrambled to his feet and gazed at the strange being in front of him for another moment. “Right,” he said awkwardly, “Time to leave the garden, I suppose. Catch you around, Angel.”_

_“Aziraphale.” The angel said._

_“Pardon?”_

_“M-my name. It's Aziraphale.” And now Aziraphale was giving him a nervous smile again, and Crowley felt his face flush._

_“That's a mouthful,” Crowley put on his best unaffected air, “Give me a few centuries to memorize that one. If I see you again, that is. Big world, and all.” He sauntered away, something warm settling in his chest that he hadn't felt since his Fall. He rubbed at the spot, trying to piece together what it might mean._

_“Aziraphale.” He whispered to himself as he walked out into the desert._

A car alarm pulled Crowley out of his dream and back into the empty twilight of the bedroom in the shop's flat. He shoved his face into the pillow and let out a low groan, trying to reconjure the serene memory. But it had dissipated, and the empty feeling in his chest bellowed at him.

He fumbled under the bed until he found a bottle, uncorking it with a thought. .“Cheers,” he said to the darkness.


	2. Act I, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback to 2019, during the events of Armageddon

_London, 2019_

Crowley rambled into his drink, unaffected by the other patrons in the bar. He knew there was some rule or another about keeping your true nature hidden from the mortals, but hey, it was the end of world, so who was keeping track? Not like he was in Hell's good books, anyway.

He'd just enjoy the rest of his doomsday right here, da- bless Heaven and Hell. One of them had taken Aziraphale from him, and he wasn't going to be a part of their war. His clothes reeked of burning books, and he couldn't think about _that_ right now. He finished his drink and flagged the barman to bring him another bottle.

In a moment of drunken sentimentality, Crowley remembered the souvenir he'd grabbed from the shop. He brought the singed book from his lap and squinted at the sooty cover. Agnes Nutter. Why hadn't Aziraphale ever mentioned this one? The angel never stopped pattering on about his collection- and a book of prophecies, at that. He turned to the first page. Children's drawings; crayon scribbles? The angel's unnecessary heart would have shriveled up at the sorry state of the thing. Sure, he'd always know the stain existed underneath, but this was a little excessive not to miracle away. And if he'd been stubborn about it, the angel had all manner of book repair paraphenalia. He never left a book in this sort of condition. None of it made any sense.

Realization dawned on Crowley as he flipped through the book. Maps, post-its, notes in Aziraphale's handwriting. Aziraphale had known, the bastard. _Even if I knew where the Antichrist was, I wouldn't tell you. We're on opposite sides_. He only had a moment to feel the weight of that betrayal before he made a decision. He had to get to Tadfield- there was a world to save.

.

That curly one was definitely the Antichrist, Crowley could feel the hellish energy pouring off of him. But he didn't _look_ hellish. He just looked like a kid. And Crowley wasn't in the business of killing kids. But he had to do _something_ before this particular kid ended the whole world. He sauntered up, fully confident in his abilities to Wing It, but was stopped in his tracks the moment the young Antichrist laid eyes on him. He had never felt so laid bare in his existence, unaccustomed as he was to humans identifying him. And here was this eleven-year-old boy, staring into the back of his skull, reading his whole existence like a Sunday comic. Crowley was rooted to the spot by his stare. Adam said plainly, “You don' have to worry, I've got it all sorted out. And you wouldn't hurt me, anyway.”

“N- no. I wouldn't.” Crowley replied lamely, frozen with terror. Adam nodded once and returned to whatever it was that he'd been doing before Crowley had the audacity to get in his way. And Crowley could do nothing but stare on as four children did not end the world, but instead took down the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Moments after Death vanished, Gabriel and Beelzebub appeared on the tarmac. That finally shook Crowley from his stupor, and he sprung into action, storming toward them, unable to contain himself.

“Which one of you did it?” He hissed at them.

“Crowley- Traitor,” Beelzebub buzzed, “we will have a word later.”

“No!” He surprised himself with his boldness, “We will have a word right now. Did you burn the shop? Or was it you?” He turned on the archangel. The two of them exchanged the glance of two parents dealing with a tantruming child before turning back to him.

“Listen. Crowley, was it?” Gabriel said, flashing his corporate smile, “We've got a bit of a thing here. The whole world is going to be gone soon, if we can salvage this mess _you_ seem to have caused. What does one shop matter now?” Crowley could punch the smug look off his face.

“Because there was an angel inside, you wanker!” He yelled, “Aziraphale? Haven't you noticed you're missing one?” 

Gabriel's expression morphed into one of cold fury at the insult before the even colder smile was back. 

“Of course, the world is ending and you're worried about your boyfriend. You might be just as soft as he is. We don't have time for this. There's a war to be fought, and if I have anything to do with it, Aziraphale will be fighting along with the rest of us. He's got a platoon to lead if he wants to keep his wings. Beelze over here can deal with you,” With that, he dismissed Crowley and turned his attention onto Adam, “You.” As much as he hated Gabriel, his words still flooded him with relief. Aziraphale was alive. 

. 

In the end, Crowley barely did more than give Adam a reassuring pat on the proverbial back. But moral support must count for something, right? Once Satan was gone, Crowley approached Adam, hands stuffed deep into pockets. 

“Hey, kid,” he cautioned, “a word?” 

Adam stared at him. The look didn't carry quite the same suffocating weight as it did before. 

“Well,” Crowley continued, “about my friend-” 

“He's in Heaven,” Adam said matter-of-factly. 

“Right, I got that. But can't you, you know?” Crowley raised his eyebrows and snapped meaningfully. 

Adam shook his head. “Not anymore, I reckon,” he said, “on account of me being human and all.” 

Crowley scoffed at him. “What eleven year old boy actually gets rid of his superpowers? C'mon kid, you must be able to do something.” 

Adam shrugged, already climbing onto his bike. “Sorry, Mr. Crowley. At least your two gangs aren't gonna have to fight anymore!” With that, he and his friends rode off, leaving Crowley on the tarmac alone. 

. 

Crowley borrowed one of the army's Jeeps- surely they wouldn't mind lending him one after he'd just helped save all their lives- and sped back to London. This vehicle didn't have the same power as his Bentley, and he ached a little at that, but there was no time to dwell. There was an angel to save. He spent the longer-than-usual drive (and really, he was a demon, how was it that he couldn't persuade this blasted thing to go just a _little_ faster?) devising a plan. It'd be difficult to navigate Upstairs undetected, but he was resourceful. He just had to get back to his flat, grab a few things, and he'd be on his way. 

“Hello, Crowley,” said the last voice Crowley wanted to hear from the passenger's seat. The gig was up- he'd really thought he had more time. 

“Duke Hastur!” he poured on the fake charm, “While it's always a pleasure, I've got a bit of a thing on at the moment. Mind if we reschedule?” 

A menacing growl came from the back seat. Crowley glanced back to see two very large, very imposing demons, one of whom was dripping something green and vile onto the vinyl. Internally, his heart gave an unhelpful flip as his odds of escape dwindled. He plastered on his best attempt at an unimpressed smile. “Oh, you should have mentioned we were having a meet-up, I would have brought refreshments.” 

“That's enough, Crowley. Time to go.” Duke Hastur put a hand on the wheel, and sparks instantly burst from beneath the hood. The car sputtered and veered, and Crowley struggled to pull it safely off the road. 

“You know, I was going to return this-” he retorted cooly, but the effect was somewhat diminished by a crowbar coming down over the back of his head. 

. 

Crowley came to in Hell, where he was promptly led to a public trial- his trial. He stood stoically, trying his best to maintain his composure, as a crowd of demons leered at him from behind a glass pane. Then Hastur listed off his supposed crimes, and this was all a bit more bureaucratic and, well, tedious than he'd expected from his lot. He weighed the pros and cons of spitting some venom at them all, just to lend a bit of flair. 

It was at this point that Crowley felt a prickling in his chest. Over the years, he had developed a fine-tuned spidey-sense for Aziraphale's presence. He had picked it up that first day in Eden, and it had stuck with him and grown through the milennia. When Crowley reached inside himself, there was a small piece there set aside for the angel. It was light where the rest of him was dark, and he could use it to check in on the angel's wellbeing. If he was being honest with himself, he reached for it more often than he'd like to admit. But the light was bright and warm, and he was a snake, after all. When Crowley had entered the burning bookshop, he had searched for that light and couldn't find it. It was as if a hole had opened up where Aziraphale used to be. Since Aziraphale had never been discorporated before, Crowley had assumed the worst. But now, he could feel it again, and oh, _Somebody_ , it burned. The room grew hazy around him as the little light in him cried out _Warning, Warning, Warning!_ He slammed his eyes shut, thinking _shithshitshitshitshit, what do I do?_ He started planning an escape route; mapping the exits, counting the demons between him and the elevator. He wasn't much of a fighter, but if he turned into a snake maybe he could get a jump on them. If he was fast enough, he could get by them and he'd have a clear path Upstairs. He could do this- he'd deal with the fallout later. 

Then, all at once, he felt that little light tear away from him. It was like being split right down the middle- a vast chasm opened up inside of him, and he dropped into it. In front of the assembled host of Hell, Crowley collapsed to his knees and screamed. When he inhaled with a gasp, it was like breathing in Hellfire. The world went silent around him- all he could hear was the roaring of the inferno surrounding him. _No,_ he realized as he fell, _not surrounding me. Surrounding him._ He felt the ground meet him, and was vaguely aware of the confused glares of the surrounding demons, but it didn't matter. He was falling, falling, falling, and this one was so much worse than the first. He could feel Aziraphale's Grace burn away, and that last bit of light in himself burnt away with it. He pressed his face into the filthy ground, praying it would just open up and swallow him. 

He could hear voices talking over him, but it was like listening from the bottom of an endless pit. Then there was the archangel Michael, in Hell, holding a fancy-looking vase, and something in the back of his mind pondered the unlikeliness of that. He was able to wrap his head around those few details, and understanding dawned on him. _Good,_ he thought, _get it over with. I can't bear this another moment. I can't._ But the angel looked down at him, and was that sadness on their face? No, that couldn't be right, because now there was laughter, and there was more talking, and then the angel turned and walked back the way they came. _No, please, come back._ Crowley felt the chasm tearing at him and tried to cry out, but couldn't find his breath. Voices continued to shout around him, and then there was silence. He stayed prone, clawing at the ground, waiting for something- anything- but nothing came. He continued to fall and burn and collapse in on himself. 

Hours, or days, or weeks passed. His surroundings slowly began to swim back into focus, and Crowley idly realized that he was in his own flat. That was a thing. He brushed his fingers over the cool concrete floor, and closed his eyes, surrounded by his own darkness. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe if he reached out far enough, there was still a trace of him out there, some bit of light. He extended his mind and the fissure in his chest expanded with it, cracking and burning at the bone-dry remains of him. _You're going to tear yourself apart_ , he thought, and reached out impossibly more. He kept reaching, reaching, until his breath burned. He remembered he didn't have to breathe and so he stopped, just to ease the flames that consumed his lungs. Nothing would ease the rest of it, though. This Maranas Trench that was left of him. The knowledge that Aziraphale was gone; truly, unequivocally, irrevocably gone. He gave up with a choked sob, letting himself fall back into the darkness that surrounded him. 

. 

A ringing pulled him back to consciousness, and that was irritating. He picked his head up, wincing at the sunlight shining through his windows. His phone was ringing; that didn't make sense. Only one person had ever bothered to call him on that line. _Aziraphale?_

He knew better, and yet he struck out for the phone like the stupid serpent he was and fumbled to answer. 

“Angel?” 

“Mr. Crowley!” An overly enthusiastic young voice called from the other line. 

And he'd known, of course he'd known. All the same, his heart gave out all over again. “Adam?" He replied sullenly as he slid back down to the floor, "How'd you find me?” 

“I looked you up,” He said proudly, “Gotta keep the team together, that's what I was thinkin'.” 

“Right, yeah. listen, kid. Now's not the best time.” 

“What'd'ya think of the bookshop? I made it up much cooler. No offense to Mr. Aziraphale or nothin', but he didn't have any fun books before. Thought he'd appreciate some of the good ones.” 

“Hold up, slow down” Crowley rubbed at his eyes, wading through the fog of his mind to catch up, “The bookshop? It burned down.” 

“Yeah, but I brought it back. I brought it all back. I know I messed it all around, so I made it right. You must've seen it.” 

The room spun around him, and Crowley was out the door in an instant, the call forgotten. 

His Bentley sat outside, gleaming in the sunlight, not a scratch or scorch mark on it. The engine revved sympathetically when he got in. He brushed a hand gently over the dash. “Sorry for all that, old girl,” he soothed, “we pulled it off, though, didn't we?” The Bentley purred in agreement, and pulled away toward Soho. 

. 

Crowley stared up at the renewed bookshop, and blinked a few times. It was there- no flames creeping out the windows or anything. He stood on the sidewalk for a long while, desperate to look inside, but terrified to take another step forward. A passerby stopped to ask if he needed something, and that was enough to force him to move. He walked up the steps unsteadily and laid a reverent hand on the doorknob. It was cool to the touch- no sign of ash or flame. He pushed the door open, throat tightening at the familiar chime of the bell. With a trembling breath, he took a few steps inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. The books stared at him from the shelves, unburnt. He sniffed at the air, darting his tongue out experimentally- dusty, with a hint of cocoa and leather. Adam had told the truth- he'd brought it back. 

“Angel?” His voice echoed, small but all too loud in the empty shop. He didn't have to search, he already knew the truth of it. Knew in the split-open, burnt-up parts of him. Adam hadn't quite brought it all back. 

“You've gone.” 

. 

Crowley couldn't bring himself to leave the shop after that. He'd tried; gone for a few drives in the Bentley at the beginning, hoping the comfort of his car would make him feel like himself again. And besides, the plants needed watering. He'd gotten halfway to his flat before turning back. It's just that with the shop out of sight, how could he be sure it was still standing? Heaven could still decide to claim it; Hell could still decide to punish him even more by burning it again. Though he knew that was unlikely. 

It turns out, he'd missed a few key details during his trial. While he was busy having his soul torn asunder, Michael and Beelze had a good chat. Heaven had burned Aziraphale- Crowley'd felt that much. Hellfire. And Hell had planned to drown Crowley in Holy Water; let the punishment fit the crime and all that. But angels can feel love and, it so happens, heartache, and Michael had taken one look at him sprawled out on the floor, and felt all of it as he'd cried out for Aziraphale. They knew they'd already found the worst punishment Hell could inflict on him. Heaven's more creative than Hell when it comes to retribution. So Michael had taken the Holy Water back to Heaven, and Hell had stamped Crowley's file with a big, red, “Dishonorably Discharged” and popped him back to Earth. And just like that, Crowley was a free agent. Fired from Heaven, fired from Hell. Free to do whatsoever he pleased. 

But nothing much pleased him anymore. Eternity stretched out ahead of him and for the first time since before the Garden, he wished instead for oblivion. But no, even before, even during his Fall, it hadn't been like this. Back then, he had held onto some foolish thread of hope that there was still a place for him in her Plan. And in the Garden, he'd found himself drawn to the light of the angel on the wall, found that his Grace felt like a balm where it should have burned. And while the angel had fed him the party line, he'd also smiled at Crowley, had shielded him from the first rain. Crowley pathetically coiled himself around the light of him, that inkling of hope, and had grasped tightly to it for thousands of years. He meant to nurture that light; he wanted to hold it in his palm and make sure no harm ever came to it. But Crowley knew he was a pest; a snake coiled around an unsuspecting soft thing. Ivy- _Hedera helix_ \- threading along the trunk of a beautiful tree, suffocating, sinking tendrils of doubt into the bark. He never blamed Aziraphale for attempting to pry him off; the angel should have torn out his roots. Because in the end he'd crushed his quarry; sapped the life from the thing. And ivy will continue to grow on a dead tree; its tendrils too deep to remove. Aziraphale was gone, and this vine-whip of him remained, and all he could do was cling to the only bits of Aziraphale that he had left. 

So he holed himself away in the shop- if you deprive a plant of sunlight, it should wither away; cannot spread, cannot invade. But all the books- all this old paper was like a kindling for his grief. He couldn't keep his disloyal fire-starter hands from leafing through the pages, fanning the flames until they billowed around him. Grabbing too tight at the pages as the memories choked him. _Oh, Crowley,_ Aziraphale would say, _careful or you'll break the binding_. How was he meant to exist in this space with all the angel's most cherished possessions? Why would he ever want to go anywhere else? 

He tried to want revenge, to channel his anger into something useful- he wanted to _want_ to fly up to Heaven and burn the whole place down. Yes, he hated the angels for what they did, but he had no drive for retribution. His anger burnt up inside of him instead like flames on so much dry paper, and he'd curse himself for letting this happen, and he'd curse the world for continuing to turn without the angel in it, curse the stars for continuing to shine when he couldn't stand the sight of them anymore. Then he'd burn himself out, and he'd be left with nothing but wretched desperation. 

On one occasion, Crowley found himself kneeling, hands clasped together in prayer to a God that hadn't spoken to him since his Fall. “I know I'm not in Your good graces, but please. Please. Listen, I'll give anything, just send him back. He was only doing what he thought was right- if he did anything wrong, it was my fault. I planted doubt, I'm the one that questioned Your plan. I've always questioned, that's on me, not him. Just, please, make it right. The Earth would be a lot better off with him instead of this,” he looked down at his bedraggled self, “Whatever this is.” He waited, the heavy silence settling back around him, “I don't know how to do this without him.” He whispered. The silence did not respond. He stayed bent, looking around as though the books might relay a message from the Almighty. They did not. 

Despair crept in on him, and he banished it with white-hot anger. He didn't know what he had expected, thinking She'd take his pitiful call. And he'd gotten on just fine without Her answers all this time, he didn't have any use for them now, he told himself firmly. The only Holy voice that had ever held a modicum of reason had been Aziraphale's. That was the only voice he really wished to hear now. He changed tactics, bowing his head over his hands and clasping them ever tighter. 

“Aziraphale,” he said quietly, “if you can hear this, wherever you are. If you're anywhere, which I suppose you aren't. Just,” he faltered, hot tears dropping onto his white-knuckled hands, “find a way back. Or tell me where you are, I'll come to you. Just don't leave me alone here. It was only ever meant to be both of us, what am I meant to do now? No one to thwart my wiles- there's no sense in it. No one to remind to me to put coasters down. You've no idea how many rings I've had to miracle off your precious end tables, Angel. For the state of your furniture, you've gotta come back.” He cut himself off with what was either a laugh or a sob, he couldn't be sure. After a pause, he continued, voice barely perceptible, “For me, Angel. You've gotta come back for me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking it out with me so far! The next chapter will be less painful!


	3. Act I, Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Love has gone and left me,—and the neighbors knock and borrow,  
>  And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse,—  
> And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow  
> There's this little street and this little house. _
> 
> _segment from Ashes of Life by Edna St. Vincent Millay_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last segment of part one! Part two will be posted shortly. Thanks for sticking with me, I continue to promise an eventual happy ending! <3

It started with occasional glances out the window. Crowley would pull back the curtain, squinting into the unfamiliar sunlight, and just steal a brief glimpse. People walked by- living, breathing people, continuing on as though the world hadn't ended. It made his chest ache, taking a step closer to the caution tape he'd secured around that dangerous ravine. He'd close the curtain and resume his scheduled brooding.

Half a century Crowley had spent locked away from the outside world. It wasn't the worst he'd done- he had once slept away a full century, after all. And he'd earned a good long wallow, hadn't he? Especially when each glance outside reminded him of everything they'd saved- everything he hadn't. He couldn't walk back out there and pretend to be a part of it. Not when they all carried on thinking none of it had happened, their worlds entirely restored. Not when his world was the only one shattered that day. He couldn't face this new one, not when he would be forced to walk it alone. Even so, Adam's words rang in his head, and some mutinous part of him had heard them. No, he couldn't walk this world as he had, not without the angel. But he could check in on how the humans were getting along- make sure all their work wasn't going to waste. So he stole glances.

One day, he heard a commotion outside- a dog barking, someone shouting and someone else shouting back. He peeked out the window to see someone's yappy little dog had scared someone else's big tough-looking dog under a car, and someone else was trying in vain to retrieve the cowering thing. Crowley snickered in spite of himself, and dragged a chair up to the window to watch the show. Eventually the situation resolved- rather anticlimactically, in his opinion- but Crowley lingered. He watched as Soho buzzed around him, while he sat rotting away like all the books on the shelves- not that he would let a single page rot, mind you. As he watched, absorbed by the bustle of the city, some long-forgotten, restless feeling began to itch at his chest. His fingers twitched as a businessman in an expensive suit crossed the street without looking up from his phone, suppressing the urge to drain the man's phone battery. He shook the feeling away, startled by the unexpected compulsion. He continued to watch, trying to put the strange urge out of his mind. A young couple, just starting out by the looks of it, walked by, an awkward six inches between them. He saw the hands shoved into pockets, the sidelong glances, and, _oh_ , Crowley knew that feeling too well. If he just conjured a strong enough breeze, he could push one of them toward the other. They passed by, unassaulted by the wind. He got up and poured himself a glass of something strong, abandoning the passerby for the comfort of the back room. He curled up on his sofa, cradling his knees and his drink, and reflected on those six inches of distance that might as well have been six thousand miles. He rubbed at his aching, burnt-out chest and chased the feeling away with copious amounts of alcohol.

Despite his better judgment, it was only a few days before Crowley was drawn back to the chair by the window. It's just, that feeling had continued to itch at him- a needling desire he felt compelled to scratch. For the first time in so many years, he had a desire to do something- to involve himself. The thing was, if he was going to get involved, he wanted to make it worthwhile, whatever that might mean. _Make it better in your own way._ He didn't know what Adam had meant by that- he wasn't designed to make things better, he wasn't _good_. He knew how to inconvenience people; knew how to bring up the collective blood pressure of the surrounding area. But he didn't want to do that anymore- there was no thrill in wiling when there was no chance of it being thwarted. But he couldn't make things _better_ , either. He was charred and wretched, unfit for good deeds. So what could he do; what was his way?

He drummed his fingertips on the windowsill and scowled at the passerby. There, a teenager tossed a bottle toward the bin and missed. He considered filling their head with images of landfills and sad baby seals or some other guilt-tripping nonsense. But no, that didn't feel like the thing. His leg bounced up and down, and he continued to watch. Here, a group of tourists stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to puzzle over a map. The crowd parted around them, determinedly avoiding eye contact. He could inspire someone to assist them toward their destination. Eh, that wasn't worth much, they'd figure it out on their own, anyway- probably some virtue in working it out for themselves. None of his ideas felt right, and so he did nothing. Okay, he _might_ have untied the shoelaces of a traffic warden putting a ticket on some poor bastard's windshield, but that was more for old time's sake. It's what Aziraphale would have done, after all. He stormed away from the window, unsatisfied, and spent the remainder of the evening reading a trashy spy novel and drinking heavily.

During one of his people-watching sessions, a group of young children with chalk came around and began drawing on the sidewalk outside the shop. Crowley grew a bit tense, watching carefully to make sure none of them got it into their little heads to give the shop itself any redecorating. When it became clear that their art wasn't going to imperil the storefront, Crowley settled in to watch them with growing amusement. Children had always fascinated him- their unapologetic honesty and demand for answers charmed him. However, sometimes that unapologetic honesty could be cruel- as he was currently bearing witness to. It seemed that majority of the group of kids were rallying around a leader, and that leader was scuffing up one young girl's drawing. As the group laughed, the girl wilted under the ridicule. The gang's leader pulled the chalk from her hand and tossed it aside, sneering something at her. Crowley snapped his fingers, and he could hear the conversation clearly.

“You've only been invited because our parents made us. No one wanted to hang out with you, anyway.” The young girl didn't respond, only looked down into her hands, stained blue from the chalk. Crowley felt his face flush, anger igniting. The boy continued, “You're a freak, your mum prolly died just to get away from you.” Crowley's temper flared, and he was out the door before he could consider what a terrifying prospect that was.

“Hey!” He called, and as the group turned, he transformed his face into something dreadful and serpentine. They gave a collective scream and ran off, the leader fainting at the sight of him. He resumed his preferred form and rolled his eyes, “c'mon, up you get, it wasn't _that_ bad,” he sighed, snapping to revive the boy, who immediately clambered to his feet and scurried off to follow his friends. Crowley turned to regard the young girl, seemingly unfazed, still staring into her lap. He knelt and picked up the blue chalk, offering it to her. She glanced briefly at him, but didn't accept it.

“Fair enough,” he shrugged, and lowered himself to sit properly beside her. He began drawing what could have been an angel, but could also have been a rather ugly bird. He gave it a little halo to distinguish it further. He glanced at the girl from behind his glasses, and as she watched him a small smile crept onto her face.

“That's not very good,” she said with a mousy voice. Unapologetic honesty. A matching smile made its way onto his own disobedient lips.

“Yes, well, we can't all be Da Vincis, can we?” He retorted gently. She picked up a piece of chalk and began drawing her own angel- better than his by miles.

“Who are you drawing?” He asked.

“My mum,” she sighed, “What about you?”

“I'm not- er. Well. My best friend.”

They drew together in silence, and Crowley reached out tentatively with his powers. Demons couldn't sense love or any other _good_ feelings, but they could sense the bad ones. God had let them keep those ones. He could feel the girl's grief, which caused him to step dangerously close to his own edge. He flinched, but didn't allow himself to fall into it. Instead, he took off his sunglasses and looked directly at her. She didn't startle as she stared right back at him.

“I can't make it all better,” he said, “but I can tell you that it will get easier now.” And he put all the weight of his demonic influence into the words, pulling some of the sorrow out of the young girl's mind. She blinked rapidly, her lip trembled, and then, without hesitation, she sprang forward and hugged him. It was the first time anyone had ever hugged Crowley- he'd never allowed himself close enough to anyone to permit the possibility, though he'd wondered what it might be like. He felt his fragile facade rapidly crumbling.

“Yes, yes, get off,” he sniffed, and stood, “best get home now. You'll worry someone if you're gone too long.” The young girl smiled at him and left. He watched her go, then stared down at their chalk angels, the nagging feeling in his chest giving way to something strange and squiggly, like the ghost of some long-forgotten warmth. He shivered and went back inside.

.

Crowley paced as he stared out the window, waiting for something to happen. He'd been waiting for something to happen, growing increasingly impatient, for weeks. He needed to experience that strange feeling again. It was the first time he had felt something good since he'd lost Aziraphale. He didn't think it was possible for anything to feel like the warmth that came from the angel. Sure, this was like a glowworm next to the angel's supernova, but he wanted to chase after it nonetheless. The thing is, it's rare for anything noteworthy to happen outside of a bookshop. So he waited, and he grew impatient, and so he paced. He walked away and picked up a book, not reading a word as he very pointedly did not look outside. He tossed- no, gently placed- the book back onto the shelf and walked into the kitchenette to brew some tea. Crowley brewed two cups- he always did. He placed one- the kitshy white mug with the wings that he'd bought Aziraphale as a lark, but that he'd noticed the angel using regardless- on the desk by the armchair, coaster underneath. He cradled the other, breathing in the steam and letting it settle him, as he gave up the act and strolled back to the window, leaning against the frame.

Resigned, he closed his eyes and reached out with his powers. Crowley did not like looking into humans' minds- it felt like an invasion of privacy, and it forced him to acknowledge the vile creature he was. He was also prone to adopting a bit too much of their feelings. But if action wouldn't come to him, he would need to take action. He reached out and skimmed the small crowd as they passed by. Lots of low-grade frustration, some pride and lust here and there, nothing too interesting. He was quickly becoming discouraged, but there- he opened his eyes to locate the source of the ripple of sadness he'd detected. He saw a hunched, elderly man crossing the road- he looked average enough, but there was something in the tension he held in his shoulders, the deep furrow of his brow. Crowley leaned forward and focused more directly on the man. He was hit with a wave of bitterness, a deep-seated anger toward the world around him, and the even deeper anguish of loss.

Crowley flinched at the familiarity in the man's emotions, his own chest growing hot with sympathetic resentment and heartache. He pulled back from the man's mind and shook the feeling off as he disappear into a nearby cafe. After a few moments he reemerged, two beverages in hand. He meandered to a bus stop and placed one cup on the arm of the bench, settling himself down with the other. Crowley shifted uncomfortably, eyes drifting to the still-steaming cup of tea by the too-empty armchair. His heart gave a pained thump, and he blinked away the stinging in his eyes. He focused back onto the man, who had pulled out a book and was reading aloud. Crowley snapped his fingers and he could hear the quiet narration. After a moment, he recognized the passage. 

_“...After a cup of tea (two spoonfuls for each cup, and don't let it stand for more than three minutes), it says to the brain, "Now rise, and show your strength. Be eloquent, and deep, and tender; see, with a clear eye, into Nature, and into life: spread your white wings of quivering thought, and soar, a god-like spirit, over the whirling world beneath you, up through long lanes of flaming stars to the gates of eternity...”_

Did it have to be _that_ book? Crowley closed his eyes, and the words swam like a memory behind his eyes. _“Crowley, you simply must try this one. I know your feelings on books, my dear, but I assure you this one will be worth your time.”_ In response, he had muttered something about the literacy rates of demons, and Aziraphale had left the book with his jacket. Crowley had been in a rotten mood that day, he can't recall why anymore, but he hadn't taken the book. When he returned, the book was back on the shelf- Aziraphale never mentioned it again. The angel had always been too patient, too understanding of the guise he hid behind. He had wanted to ask about the book, to apologize for his venom, but he never had the courage. He's read it countless times since, each time wishing he could recite the funniest bits to the angel, picturing the way he would blush and hide a smile behind pursed lips. They could discuss the advantages of cheese as a traveling companion, and Crowley could tease Aziraphale for stocking such vulgar materials, unbecoming as it was of his angelic position. But he couldn't do any of those things- instead, he would curl up on the sofa and read and let the hollowed bits of him crumble and smolder.

Tamping out his embers, Crowley opened his eyes and looked back to the man, reading to an empty space beside him, and expected to feel his sadness amplify. Instead, the weight of his pain lightened, the undercurrent of anger receded, and the man's brow unfurrowed. He actually smiled as he recited the words, and Crowley frowned at him. He didn't understand- as he peered into the man's mind, he could see the memories the book held for him. How could he allow the words to uplift him while remembering all that pain? He watched for some time, bewildered, until the man's bus arrived. He closed the book, and stood with effort. Crowley felt his pain begin to trickle back, not as strong as before, but still present. With a wave, Crowley pulled away that pain, removing it from the man's mind. The man stopped and turned, staring back at the bench with a complicated look. Then he smiled, the rigidness gone from his shoulders, and got onto the bus. Crowley felt a small flicker of warmth, but he was much too confused by the display he'd witnessed to pay any mind to it.

That night, Crowley rang Adam.

“Hullo,” Adam picked up cheerfully.

“How could the memory of your dead wife possibly make you happy?” Crowley demanded.

“I don' have a dead wife.” Adam replied, obviously caught off-guard by the abruptness of the question.

“Yes, fine, but if you did. Why would you think about them and be happy?”

“Well,” Adam took a few seconds, and responded slowly, “You had good memories with them, right? So it'd make you happy to think 'bout the good times.”

“That doesn't make me happy,” Crowley said flatly, “It just makes it more horrible that he's not here now.”

Adam was silent for a long moment. When he responded, his voice was gentle, and Crowley could hear all the pity behind it, “Should I plan a trip out there, Mr. Crowley?”

“No, no, don't bother.” he tried to sound casual, “Just pondering an anthropological issue. Humans are weird. Take care, Adam, ta.” He hung up.

Thoughts of Aziraphale only ever sent him tumbling toward that treacherous ravine. Perhaps humans didn't have a piece of their soul cleaved away when their loved ones died, and so were able to find solid ground to reminisce on where he could not. Demons weren't meant to feel happiness, after all- it had been a fluke that he'd found it with Aziraphale. Maybe the close proximity to the angel had allowed him access to all those pleasant feelings that were meant to be eliminated by his Fall. And now that he was gone, Crowley was shut off permanently from all that, left with the cavernous imprint of the memory. But no, he'd felt that flicker of warmth- twice now, as fleeting as it was. So perhaps Aziraphale's light was gone, and he wasn't able to think of him without burning up, but he could still feel _something_. And there were humans out there who felt as trapped in their grief as he was. But they weren't trapped- Crowley could take it from them, could make it better. It occurred to him that he may have found his way.

.

Crowley was going to leave the bookshop. He stood at the door, hands fisted so hard his fingernails cut into the palms, pulse hammering heavy behind his eyes. Crowley was going to leave the bookshop- he just had to figure out how to step out the door. Nothing to it.

For the past few months, he had continued his vigil at the window- sporadically finding someone whose pain mirrored his own. Each person he helped, each person who stood a little straighter as they carried on, brought that bit of warmth, and as time went on, brought a spark of something else. For all the grief the humans held echoed his own- there were some whose pain was so strong he was shocked to see them walking down the street. But that's the thing- they were all passing by, carrying on, refusing to rot away. At first, it baffled and frustrated him- how could they betray their loved ones by carrying on without them?

But the more he watched, the more he understood the strength it took to bear such a life. He was stricken by one woman- a mother who had lost her child. She had stopped on the street and stared down at a small sock, probably fallen out of a pram. She'd stared for a long minute, and Crowley had been hit with such a wave of anguish that he was transported fifty years back, sure he was lying on a filthy floor burning in Hellfire. While he was nearly toppled by the memory, the woman did the craziest thing- she continued walking, feet carrying her to a cafe where she was meeting a work colleague for a late lunch. That woman had no more of a desire to continue on than he did- and yet she had. She had, and so had every other human he'd helped so far. Crowley had pulled away as much of her grief as he could, and he was hit with that spark, which he came to finally see for what it was- his own desire to carry on.

It was a small thing- a neglected seedling, left in the dark, forgotten, unfed- but it was reaching for those hints of light. It had spots, and it was weak- he could easily stomp it down, and he was tempted to. There was still that ever-present voice in his head, his cavernous chest reminding him that the world should not go on without Aziraphale, that he could not go on without him. Stomp the life from that traitorous vine- remember how unfair this all is. And yet, another part of him wanted to feed it- give it access to sunlight, allow it some water, maybe some nitrogen too. If the humans could do it, perhaps he could learn to, as well. And perhaps he owed it to humanity- to Aziraphale- to walk among them, stand in solidarity in their shared grief.

And so he miracled himself some new clothes, and looked himself over in a mirror. He grimaced and quickly fashioned his hair into something more modern- long hellfire waves tied back into a bun. He banished the dark circles under his eyes, but the bruise-yellow irises stared back at him, a reminder that he was not human- he still lived with a hollowed out, burnt up soul. This was a stupid idea, it would be much easier to stay put, remember what he was. He conjured some new sunglasses and hid the serpent away, placed that little seedling closer to the window, and he was ready. Well, ready to stand in front of the door for twelve hours. He just couldn't force his snakeskin feet to carry him over the threshold.

Finally, he accepted he could not walk those perilous meters, so he closed his eyes, and with shaking fingers, snapped himself outside. He kept his eyes shut, taking a long breath in, and letting it out shakily. A light breeze caressed his face, then a car horn blared, nearly discorporating him. His eyes flew open to find he was right in the middle of the street- he'd overshot the mark a touch. He raised an apologetic hand and scurried back to the sidewalk, where he took a moment to process- he had done it! He breathed in the familiar city air, which was somehow unchanged after all this time- hadn't Adam passed some laws about emissions or something? He gazed up at the bookshop and his excitement ebbed, giving way to unease and guilt. Plenty of time had passed, he reasoned- clearly no harm would come to the shop if he left for just a moment. He tried to let the logic scare away his anxieties, and willed his feet to move him away from the shop. People shuffled past him, and he blended into the crowd, attempted to reclaim some of his old swagger, but it felt like walking through an old dream. His unease grew, and he shrunk in on himself, feeling at once too small and too large in the vast streets. He tried to stop his heart from hammering out of his chest.

It wasn't until he reached a side alley that he realized where he'd led himself. The rusted, detritus-laden eyesore was hardly recognizable as a car, let alone his beloved Bentley. A new spark of remorse blazed through him, and he approached the car penitently.

“Look at you,” he whispered, overcome, “You never deserved this.” He waved his hand delicately over the hood, the windshield, the roof- removing decades of decay. When he was finished, the car gleamed as brightly as the day he'd bought it new. He patted the roof of the car, “A single leaf won't dare fall on you again, you hear? I'll do better from now on.”

He opened the door and hesitated briefly before lowering himself into the driver's seat. It felt clumsy, this attempt to reclaim his old self. He sat in his car, wore today's fashions, put all the pieces together, but the alignment was off, inelegant and ill-fitting. The doubt burned at him- who was he kidding? This wasn't him anymore; he had none of his old confidence, no desire to pick up where he'd left off. But he thought of that woman staring at the sock, and the young girl drawing angels, and the old man reading to the bench, and all the others. He started the ignition, the Bentley blazing to life as though no time had passed. The roar of the engine, the feel of the steering wheel beneath his hands, didn't give him the same thrill that it once did, but it was grounding, and a piece seemed to fit a bit more comfortably back into place. He tightened his grip on the wheel and put it in gear.

Today, he would just bring the Bentley back to the bookshop- nothing to it. Another day maybe he'd give it a proper drive around the block. Crowley pulled out of the alley, driving more carefully than he had in the car's lifetime. He turned on the radio and Beethoven's _I Want to Break Free_ blasted back at him from the speakers.

“Very funny.” He growled, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward all the same.

.

Years continued to pass, as they determinedly did, and while Crowley still felt the acuteness of Aziraphale's absence, he was learning not to resent the passage of time. It was a slow process. Yes, there were still many unbearable mornings, where he woke up in a haze of burning memories, longing to feel a warm body beside his own, expecting to see a head of white hair on the pillow next to him. He'd find himself unable to open his eyes on those days, unwilling to face the reality of that empty pillow. And there were still days where fear paralyzed him, and he couldn't leave the shop, convinced it would be aflame at his return.

But increasingly, there were days where he could walk down the street, take drives in the Bentley, even visit some his old haunts. With each new experience he ached with memories, the tearing cavern of him still raw and demanding in his chest. All this time, he had thought he'd been stepping around the ravine, careful not to fall, when now he realized that he had never climbed out. He'd been living from the bottom of that pit since he'd lost the angel. In leaving the shop for the first time, he'd made the first painstaking step back toward the surface. It was a slow, rigorous climb, but he was learning to cling to the perilous terrain of himself. Finding the footholds, building strength enough to hold on instead of fall back in. And all the while, he was working his way back into the world, allowing himself to remember that he had once loved Earth, and the humans on it, and so much that it had to offer.

Adam came to visit one day, and Crowley suggested they take a walk through St. James'. It was a beautiful summer day- nearly the anniversary of the Apocawasn't- and he couldn't spend it brooding in the shop. He drove them to the park, and they walked slowly along the path, Adam holding onto his arm for support. Crowley eyed him from behind his glasses, considered the long-greyed hair and deep laugh lines left by years of fond moments. They stopped when they reached the pond, and Crowley presented a bag of frozen corn. The two fed the ducks in the comfortable silence of old friends.

“Aziraphale and I used to meet here and feed the ducks whenever we had to discuss the Arrangement. Rendezvous point number one- my personal favorite. The angel always had a soft spot for the feathered buggers. Back then we were still allowed to feed them bread. They preferred bread, you know; went mad for a good brioche. Aziraphale was just the same. Nearly lost his head over a brioche once, though it was more the crepes, really- what are you looking at me like that for?”

Adam was watching him, a glint in his eye. “You're smilin'.” He said.

“M'not.” Crowley responded, returning his face to his usual scowl.

“Were too, you ol' serpent. Might be old, but I haven' slowed down that much.”

Crowley gave Adam a glare, but the boy was right. He hadn't noticed the fondness laced into his tone, but he could feel the leftover warmth in his chest. And now that he was noticing, he realized that he was not in danger of falling- the memory had felt soothing. It was still paired with the constant background ache, the desire to turn and see the angel tossing some crust to a mallard, but it wasn't burning him up, not today. That had to count for something.

“Well, don't make it a thing.” He muttered to Adam, who was still giving him a cheeky grin.

“No, 'course not.” Adam turned back to the ducks and tossed them another handful of corn.

Yes, Crowley would forever cling to this ledge, holding together the broken pieces of himself. He would have unbearable mornings, and nights where the flames suffocated him like so many burning books. And he would have these moments, as well, where he could remember the angel fondly, and walk into the world that they saved together, and he could carry on for the both of them.

He tossed the last bits of corn to a drake, who floated away, dreaming of brioche.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The passage the old man read was from _Three Men in a Boat_ by Jerome K Jerome.


	4. Act II, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In an alternate reality, Aziraphale survived Armageddon while Crowley did not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Time does not bring relief; you all have lied  
>  Who told me time would ease me of my pain!  
> I miss him in the weeping of the rain;  
> I want him at the shrinking of the tide_
> 
> _Excerpt from Time Does Not Bring Relief by Edna St. Vincent Millay_

Aziraphale sat under the gnarled old tree on a blue tartan picnic blanket, basket in tow. The tree was heavy with fruit, the gleaming red apples weighing down the branches and tempting him with their crisp, sweet aroma. He snapped and one of the apples, warmed from the sunlight, found its way to his hand. He closed his eyes and smiled wryly as he took a bite- Crowley would throw back his head and bark out a laugh if he were here. _“Really, Angel, I thought I'd have to do a bit more convincing,”_ he'd say, or perhaps, _“Are you sure you're prepared for that sort of commitment, Angel?”_. Aziraphale spent a lot of time imagining the snarky comments Crowley would throw at him- always with that fond smile he hid away behind sarcasm and dark lenses. Mostly he longed for the way his name had sounded like an embrace when it came from the demon's lips.

It had been eighty-four years since the not quite end of the world; eighty-four years since he'd heard his name from that voice. Eight-four years since Crowley had... no, best halt that thought there. Aziraphale was quite practiced at compartmentalizing, and he had sealed away those days in a filing cabinet in a padlocked room in the deep recesses of his mind, not to be revisited. There was nothing good that could come from dwelling on the past. Memories were a dangerous thing- a calm sea where danger lurked beneath. In the beginning, he was repeatedly fooled by the sweet wistfulness of the surface. He'd cross the street and remember how Crowley would wave a thanks to cars that stopped for them- the most polite demon in existence. Or he would pass St. James' and think of the way they would walk together, how sometimes their steps would synchronize, a moment of quiet unity. Or he would get caught in the rain and remember a wing extended in good faith, and a demon leaning in, the first brick pulled from his wall of defense.

Aziraphale would float on the surface of the memories, then he would drift deeper. Memories of Crowley tugged at him like a riptide; they would drag him under, into the treacherous waters beneath. He would think of the soft demon, the gentle patience secreted away, revealed only to him, only if he was careful not to draw attention. How once attention was drawn, Crowley would coil- spit venom and strike out. Aziraphale had always thought it was an act- just another bit of bravado meant to ensure his fiendish image remained indisputable. He should have realized the reason for the front- the reality of what would occur if his image came under scrutiny. _Don't thank me. Nice is a four letter word. My side doesn't send rude notes._ The current of guilt and grief and anguish was too strong to fight, and once he was caught by it he could easily drown. There were times where Aziraphale would shake himself out of his thoughts to find he was staring into a book, having not read a word and covered head to toe in a layer of dust. He'd ruined a waistcoat from 1893; he'd let it get too far.

So he did not allow himself to get swept away by the thoughts; was not fooled by the soft surface of the memories. He had to push away thoughts of Crowley, and he'd gotten on with life- if not well, then at least passably; he had carried on. He had planted this tree for his lost friend, secluded in a garden in the countryside, and ensured with a bit of divine assistance that it would grow without need for fertilizer or whatever it was that plants required to thrive. He allowed himself just one yearly visit, right around the anniversary of the “Apocawasn't” (and really, Adam, do we have to call it that?), which was fortuitously peak apple season. He breathed in the fresh country air, packed a picnic, and thought about how amused Crowley would be at him snapping an apple from the branches, taking a bite from the forbidden fruit. He stood on the shore of himself, took off his shoes, and dipped his toes into the sea. He'd be careful not to drift out too far, but he would allow this small indulgence.

“Now, where was I,” Aziraphale said, picking back up the book by his side, “ah, here we are.” He read aloud, leaning back on an elbow, the sunlight warming his face. He imagined there was a body sprawled lazily beside him, eyes closed and basking in the perfect summer sun. Right there- right at this part he would quirk up the corner of his mouth, perhaps even huff in amusement. Aziraphale knew he would love this book if he'd ever given it a try, but the old serpent was too stubborn to admit to enjoying a book, and had never taken him up on a recommendation. Perhaps if Aziraphale had offered to read aloud to him when he'd had the chance, they could have enjoyed a moment like this one. He had always been too reserved; afraid to reach out and admit how much Crowley's company meant to him. Cold waves lapped at his ankles. He closed the book, marking his spot with a dried blade of grass, and changed the subject.

“Adam's told me they've gotten another law passed,” he pattered on, “this time it's something about the gorillas. You remember how I told you they have nests? Well, dear boy, I'll take the prize on that one. They're protecting the nests now! Not just the gorillas but their nests, too! Fascinating, what they get up to.” Aziraphale chuckled, and the quiet afternoon settled back in around him. The clear sky had nothing to say about gorillas or their nests.

It was a picturesque late-summer day, which was transitioning into a refreshing late-summer evening. He sipped at his Chateau Lafite, eyeing the second glass he'd poured sitting idly beside him. He'd worked his way through the cheese, grapes, and a scrummy sponge cake he'd picked up from a local bakery. The food was all delectable, and though he enjoyed the wine, it was more Crowley's style. The delicate tannins and notes of cedar conjured memories of hushed words exchanged in the back of a tavern in the nineteenth century. The water was rising higher, inviting, tempting him to take just a step further in.

“My dear,” he spoke quietly to his lap, “I do miss you terribly.” And he could taste brine in the air, could feel saltwater burning his eyes, and he supposed it was time to go. Best not to wade in too deep. He stood and straightened out his jacket, brushing some loose grass from his trousers. With a wave, the picnic reassembled in the basket and the blanket draped neatly over his arm. Aziraphale ghosted his fingertips along the knotted trunk of the tree. Then he turned and walked down the hill without a glance back, to a dusty country road where a gleaming black Bentley waited for him.

He lowered himself into the driver's seat. He'd never quite gotten the hang of automobiles, but luckily, he and the Bentley had become quite chummy over the years. The engine started up as he placed the picnicking materials in the passenger seat and pulled on a pair of dashing white driving gloves.

“We aren't home-bound quite yet, old girl,” he said, “We've got a- oh, how would Crowley put it? A pit-stop to make.”

Aziraphale had come to terms with it- he could not continue on as he had been in London. He still had his books, and his shop, and he'd made the most of it over the years. However, he couldn't feed the ducks in St. James' Park without getting pulled under the waves. He couldn't dine in nearly a single restaurant- all the food tasted of saltwater; they'd shared so many lunches over the years. They had gone centuries without seeing each other before, and yet, somehow every street of London seemed flooded by Crowley's absence. And while he knew nothing would fill the void that was left, Aziraphale found himself yearning for dry land to escape this shipwreck of him, or at the very least a life-jacket.

He'd spent years traveling, but that was a fool's errand, as it turns out. Rome, Paris, Japan, even Madagascar- hadn't that been a fortuitous meeting- no matter where he went, their clandestine rendezvous echoed around him. On a whim one spring he'd decided to travel to America- he'd never been; it wasn't much his style- so he imagined he'd be able to take some refuge there. Unfortunately, it had the effect of simultaneously appalling him and making him miss Crowley's wiles more terribly than anywhere else. I mean, Crowley, really? Portland wasn't exactly subtle. Just for old time's sake, Aziraphale put it into a few young people's minds that actually, yes, it was time for a shave and a nice haircut. You see a wile, you thwart, after all.

When all was said and done, England would always be home. Only, something had to be done. Luckily, there were still some places on the continent where he could find respite. As per the Arrangement, they had non-interference areas; places where the other was not allowed to go. He'd allowed Crowley Manchester, and he'd taken Edinburgh, but that felt too far- he wasn't ready to completely give up bookshop. And there was Bath- though in retrospect, perhaps it was a poor idea for him to try to recreate Rome there; too easy to think of oysters and pesky memories. Finally, he settled on the Southern coast, which he had rarely visited despite its proximity to London and its being under his jurisdiction. Aziraphale began searching through ads in real estate magazines, which eventually led him to a cottage in the countryside of the South Downs.

The Bentley cruised to a stop outside the gate, depositing Aziraphale in front of a lovely red-brick home, a trail of smoke dancing out of its chimney. _How quaint_. He gave the hood a reassuring pat, more for himself than for the car, and walked up the stone path. It led to a rickety wooden gate, which promptly fell off the hinges as he opened it. “Oh, dear,” he said as he miracled it back into place, “You might need a bit of work.” And _oh, dear,_ the roof was missing some shingles. Images of waterlogged manuscripts flashed behind his eyes and he shuddered. Aziraphale's heart sank as he wandered around the side of the house- the whole property appeared to have seen better days. It had looked a bit spiffier in the advert. Another few steps and he rounded the corner into the garden, where he stopped in his tracks, flooded by awe.

It was like stepping back in time, into the first Garden. Granted, this garden was much smaller, but it was vibrant and overflowing with life. Thick masses of purple blooms grew underfoot, and tall yellow flowers shot up overhead. Whimsical fluffy blooms brushed at his knees, and delicate white ones, like lace, peeked out in between the others. Aziraphale wasn't versed in botany; _Crowley could probably name each of these flowers,_ he thought. The garden was abundant with crops, as well- tomatoes hung on bushy green vines, pumpkins trailed along the ground, fruit trees lined the hedge. Aziraphale stood and took in the overwhelming sight, caressing the leaves of a luscious green ivy that snaked up the side of the house. On top of it all was an overwhelming feeling of love.

“Hello, there,” an elderly woman emerged from the greenery, mud on her knees and a big floppy sunhat on her head.

“Oh, hello,” Aziraphale greeted her warmly, “this is- well- it's”

“Overgrown, I know,” she chuckled, “Sometimes it's difficult to keep them from calling the shots, green thumb or not.”

“You can't let them get too comfortable,” he said absentmindedly, lost in a memory before catching himself, “Oh, no- I mean- no- I was going to say it's lovely.”

“Well, that's kind of you. Why don't I wash up and I'll show you the rest of the house. You are Mr. Fell, yes?”

“Yes, quite,” Aziraphale responded, reluctant to tear himself from the lush garden.

The woman's name was Catherine, and she'd owned the house with her husband until he'd passed away last June. It _had_ seen better days- Clyde had taken care of most of the handiwork, after all. She showed Aziraphale around, and he relaxed into the calming aura he felt in every room. From the kitchen where the couple had first learned to cook together, to the small library where Clyde had sat for hours fixing bindings on rescued books, the house was filled to the brim with love. Catherine chattered on about Clyde, and Aziraphale listened, enraptured, feeling such longing for his own lost love.

He was imagining how Crowley would have filled this sun room with verdant potted plants, and his heart glowed. He pictured himself sitting in that armchair, curled up with a book, and how snug and warm the fireplace would feel for a cold-blooded serpent. This place was right; it would have made a perfect home for the two of them. The thought rightfully _should_ have sent Aziraphale reeling; it felt more like a harbor.

“I'll take it,” he interrupted her as she described how clearly you could see the stars from the master bedroom's skylight window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally get to see some Az! Thanks for continuing to ride this angst train with me.


	5. Act II, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A flashback to the events of Armageddon, from Aziraphale's perspective_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update's a long one! I personally relate more with Crowley, but it turns out I have a lot to say about Aziraphale, too! We are almost getting past the worst of the angst now, guys, so just hold on a few more chapters!

_London, 2019_

Aziraphale had always clung desperately to his faith, the only definitive truth of the universe. He swallowed down the doubt, convinced himself any wavering thoughts were just due to his proximity to humanity. He cherished them and the Earth more than the other angels who viewed it all like ants under a telescope. He walked amongst them- he was bound to pick up some of their habits; affinity for food, for knowledge, and occasionally, for doubt. But he did not allow his faith to waver, not truly. At least, not until now.

He had genuinely believed that if he had a word with the Almighty, there wouldn't have to be all this Armageddon business, and the world would be saved. Then he could find Crowley and the demon would understand why Aziraphale had needed to push him away. They could be friends again.

But the Almighty hadn't _listened_ \- no, rather, She hadn't cared. She wanted the war, gorillas and dolphins and humans be damned- yes, truly, damned. And as Aziraphale felt his faith crumble away, he felt it replaced by a different absolute truth. He had betrayed the one being in Heaven, Hell, or Earth who cared about him. Not to mention the only other one who would help him stop all of this. He needed to find Crowley, and he needed to come clean.

He rang the demon's flat, but there was no answer, which was strange since Crowley always answered. He remembered Crowley had once given him another number- his private line, in case of emergencies- and he figured this surely counted as an emergency, so he tried that one, with no more luck than the first. _He told you he was leaving_ , Aziraphale thought as icy dread began to send tendrils down his spine. No, no, Crowley must have been bluffing, he wouldn't abandon the Earth- wouldn't abandon Aziraphale. Would he? All signs _were_ pointing to Earth ending up in a pile of goo. And Aziraphale hadn't given him much reason to stay, after all; had never laid himself out bare like Crowley had at the bandstand. And again on the street just hours ago. Quite the opposite; he'd doubled down on the same hateful rhetoric he'd throw at the demon countless times through their shared history. _Oh_ , Aziraphale thought, _I've rather made a mess of things_. No matter, he would just find Crowley and clear everything up. It would all be tickety-boo. He just had to locate the wily old serpent.

Aziraphale expended a rather large miracle to land himself directly outside Crowley's flat. No time to waste, and at this rate the cat was out of the bag, as it were. Heaven could send him all the strongly worded letters they liked. The young man at the door was too busy listening to a radio broadcast to greet him- something about fish falling from the sky- so Aziraphale let himself into the building. He'd never been to Crowley's flat, but he could pinpoint his fiendish aura immediately. But it wasn't just his aura Aziraphale sensed; there was something darker here, something much stronger than Crowley's brand of evil. _“The forces of Hell have figured out it was my fault”_ , Crowley had tried to tell him. Oh, Aziraphale had been such a fool. He hurried up the staircase, only hesitating when they led him to Crowley's door, which stood slightly ajar.

He cautiously stepped over the threshold, and was met with muffled shouting from deeper inside the apartment. “You thought you could fool me with that, 'Let me call the Dark Council' nonsense?” He heard, and hurried to follow the unfamiliar voice. A bitter stench hit him as he neared the room where the voice seemed to be coming from- burning rubber, brimstone, and was that- holy water? No, that would mean-

He came to the threshold as a voice sneered, “You thought I wouldn't come prepared?” He almost stepped in the demonic puddle at his feet. He stared down at it, worrying after his brogues before the rest of the world washed away as he processed that there was a melted _demon_ at his feet. He could recognize the blessing within the holy water as his own, given reluctantly and with a hidden prayer that it would never be used. And now, after everything, Crowley had used it.

“Crowley?” His voice came out watery and frail and disbelieving.

“Aziraphale?” He heard, and whipped his head toward the sound. _Insurance_ , he suddenly understood as he took in the scene. Crowley knelt in the adjoining room, his shattered glasses askew on his nose and a line of blood running down his cheek. Hastur, Duke of Hell, stood over him, a crowbar in his hand. They were both staring at Aziraphale.

“Angel,” Crowley cried, emotions clear on his face without the dark frames to hide behind. He looked so much more vulnerable, pain and fear plain in his eyes. But above all that, there was relief and hope as he took in the sight of Aziraphale standing there.

“I thought you'd left,” And tears were stinging at his eyes as he returned the look with one of his own, which he hoped conveyed all he felt but couldn't say- _I'm so sorry for everything, I shouldn't have pushed you away. I didn't mean any of it. I know where the Antichrist is and we need to face this together. Our side, like you said._. Perhaps that was a touch too much to fit into a single look, but Crowley's expression softened a bit regardless.

“Eh, changed my mind. Couldn't do it.” And Aziraphale could hear the silent, _not without you_. Perhaps Hastur could, too, because he growled with impatience and grabbed Crowley roughly by the hair, causing both the demon and angel to wince.

“Sorry to break up the moment,” he grinned grotesquely at Aziraphale, looking him up and down, “you're the Guardian of the Eastern Gate?” He laughed, and it was like rusty nails, “No wonder your boyfriend here was able to slip by you so easy. And he's not even half as slippery as he thinks he is.”

Aziraphale held out a hand, placating, “Now let's not be hasty,” he started, “I assure you we can handle this diplomat-” But just like that, Hastur snapped his fingers, and he and Crowley both vanished.

“Oh, _fuck_.” Aziraphale said.

.

_One problem at a time_ , Aziraphale thought to himself as he made his way to Tadfield. _Save the world, then save Crowley_. He'd found the Bentley parked outside the flat, and was not surprised that it wasn't happy to see him.

“I know,” he reasoned with it, “I upset him terribly, didn't I? But Crowley is in trouble, and we must work together if we're to help him. What do you say, old chap?” The engine begrudgingly started and Aziraphale gave it a friendly pat, “Ah, good. Now, I've got a map, but I've never actually driven one of your lot before. Terribly sorry, but I do hope you know how to do the difficult bits. Do you remember how to get to Tadfield?”

.

At the airbase, Aziraphale found himself rather wrong-footed. The Antichrist seemed like a fine young man, if not a bit grubby- but if he was being honest, Aziraphale found most children to be rather grubby. He did give off quite a wave of demonic energy, but it was more like Crowley, less like Hastur. And that small girl was slashing at one of the Four Horsemen with a flaming sword- _his_ flaming sword, if he wasn't mistaken. This was _not_ the end of the world he was expecting to find.

When all the horsemen were defeated, and only Death remained, the dark figure flapped his wings, galaxies flashing within them, but before he disappeared, the world froze around the two ethereal beings. GUARDIAN OF THE EASTERN GATE. Death said, hollow eyes turning to Aziraphale.

“Oh! Erm, hello,” he said.

IT IS NOT OFTEN THAT I CLAIM ONE OF OUR STOCK. KNOW THAT I TAKE NO JOY IN IT.

“Um- Excuse me?” Aziraphale had never spoken to Azrael, the Angel of Death. He wasn't sure how to address the entity, especially when he had no idea how to parse his riddles.

THE DEMON CROWLEY. And a cold wave suddenly washed over Aziraphale. I DO NOT CHOOSE SIDES, AND I MUST TAKE WHAT IS GIVEN.

“What are you talking about? No,” Aziraphale pleaded, “You mustn't. You can't mean-”

IT'S INEFFABLE. With another beat of his wings, Death vanished, and time resumed.

He must have misunderstood. Hell wouldn't have _killed_ Crowley, surely. _“My side doesn't send rude notes”_. Crowley had told him that, once. But, no, it couldn't be. It was all happening too fast. He was meant to have more time to figure it all out. It wasn't meant to happen this way.

“ _Excuse_ me?” He was prompted out of his thoughts by- was that the American woman with the bicycle? She was staring at him expectantly. “My book? You stole it?”

“Oh. Oh, yes. No, well, I didn't steal it. But I do have it here somewhere,” He stammered, and patted down his jacket, finding the book in his breast pocket. “Not a scratch, don't you fret.” He attempted a warm smile, but he could hear his unnecessary heartbeat thundering in his ears, and she didn't smile back as she snatched the book from his hands, anyway.

Another moment later, a flash of lightning bolted out of the sky and the archangel Gabriel stood among them, followed closely by Lord Beelzebub. As soon as he saw them, Aziraphale started forward.

“E-excuse me,” he started.

“Aziraphale. Why am I not surprised to find you here?” Gabriel smiled at him, not bothering to hide the contempt underneath. For once, the Archangel's Cheshire smile didn't make Aziraphale want to cow in submission. He stood up straighter as he continued.

“I did try to tell you I found him.” 

“Just- shut your mouth.” Gabriel said, bringing his fingers together in Aziraphale's face.

“Pardon me, but I will not.” Aziraphale puffed out his chest, and turned to Gabriel's fly-riddled counterpart, “Ma'am- er- Beelzebub, what have you done with the demon Crowley?” And if his voice was pitched a touch too high, could he really be blamed?

“He hazzzz been dealt with,” She fixed him with a level stare, “And I exzzzzpect you will be, azzzz well.”

“Oh, we are looking forward to it.” Gabriel's eyes sparkled at that- more genuine pleasure in that reaction. He clapped his hands together. “But first, we've got to get this show back on the road! You! Antichrist.”

.

Afterwards, Aziraphale stood on the periphery of the group of humans, wringing his hands and trying to steady himself. The woman with the book was kneeling and talking to the girl with _his_ sword, and the gangly man stood awkwardly while the two other boys fought over the scales. He watched them, this small sample of humanity, and tried to muster up the appropriate joy at having pulled the whole thing off. But as he stood there, he could only will himself not to look to his side, where there should be a serpent hovering and making some backhanded remark about it all.

“S'cuse me.” He looked down to see the young Antichrist, or ex-Antichrist, tugging at the hem of his jacket. “Sorry to bother you an' all, but I just wanted to say sorry 'bout your friend.”

“Oh, so you know where I might find him?”

Adam stared at him, and his gaze seemed to look all the way into the back of Aziraphale's mind, “He's gone. But you know that already.” Aziraphale was silent for a long moment.

“Yes. Right.” He paused. “Is there- well, that is to say, can you-”

“I'm human now,” Adam cut him off with remorse, though there was a great deal of relief within the declaration.

“That you are, dear boy,” Aziraphale attempted a smile, but it fell away quickly, swept off by his rising panic, “Well, are you able to tell me what happened?”

“They gave 'im a borin' old trial like on those crime shows me mum's always watchin',” Adam drawled, “Not like they was gonna let 'im go either way. I say, if you're gonna give someone a trial, make it a fair one, that's what I say. Then they threw him in a bath tub and he- well. 'Let the punishment fit the crime', that's what they told him.”

“Holy Water, then.”

“Sorry 'bout your friend. They shouldn't have done that. But on the bright side, I made it so they can't hurt you anymore. They wanted to try, but it won't work, so don't go worryin' or nothin'. You're ours now.”

“Well, that was very kind of you,” Aziraphale faltered, images of millennia alone stretching before him, “but what if I- well, that is, rather- what if I didn't. Want. That?”

“Oh.” Adam furrowed his brow, “Er, well, it's done now. It's better this way, I reckon. You're indestructible, it's wicked.”

“Wicked, yes, jolly good.” Aziraphale frowned. Adam gave him a parting wave and ran off to rejoin his friends. The four of them mounted their bicycles and pedaled out of the airbase. And now he stood truly alone on the tarmac, wishing he could reverse whatever the boy had done. It's not that he wasn't grateful to Adam. Not only had the boy defied his very nature, defied his Satanic father, and saved the world, but he'd been thoughtful enough to protect one useless angel, on top of all that. And there's the rub- he had been useless in the end. He'd hardly done anything of consequence- sure, he'd given Adam a good, “Buck up, there's a chap!” but was that worth sacrificing Crowley? He'd chosen the wrong side over and over again, he'd let Crowley believe they weren't even friends, and then he'd let him get taken. He hadn't even tried to go after him. For all the times Crowley had saved Aziraphale over the years, he couldn't return the favor when it mattered most of all. So how could Adam have spared him while Crowley perished?

It was all suddenly Too Much; a tidal wave of grief overcame him, crashing in his mind, _Crowley's gone. You failed him. You're stuck here without him forever and you failed him_. Aziraphale was drowning in his guilt, the tear-salt taste of Holy Water filling his lungs and stinging his eyes. The pain of his loss dragged him down into his darkest depths, where doubt and resentment clawed at him, exposed and weak. His wings unfurled from his back, and if he were paying closer attention he would have noticed their new ashen tint, but he was skyward in an instant.

Aziraphale hadn't actually spoken directly to the Almighty since the whole business with the flaming sword. He'd prayed, in the Beginning, and for a while after, but it appeared that the line was permanently busy; or disconnected. After a few millennia, it just seemed like a wasted effort. Until he had opened his portal that very afternoon, he hadn't made any attempts to reach Her since that dreadful business in the second World War. Now, he made his second attempt in one day, albeit a more direct one.

“Why?” He screamed into the clouds, “How could You? I know we aren't meant to question, and that it's all according to your Plan, but I can't, I can't.” He gulped shallow breaths, trying to surface through the treacherous sea that surged through him. “I've stood by through all the horrors you've laid upon humanity, and I never questioned. I've laid my faith in you through it all. But I can't stand by for this. You can't take him from me. From the Earth. He's too good for this. He didn't deserve any of it! He didn't deserve to Fall, he didn't deserve my wretched friendship, and he never, never deserved to die. He's better than any angel you have up there- a few of which I'd very much like to lodge a complaint about, as a matter of fact! He's a better angel than me. How could You? How could You?” Aziraphale screamed at the Heavens until his voice ran raw. He blasphemed until there was no more fight left in him. Then he waited; he knew he would Fall for this- he prayed he would. He'd earned it, over and over again.

“Are You even out there?” He whispered, shutting his eyes. No one answered; there was no bright light, no holy choir. And no fire, no brimstone; his wings did not burn away and his Grace did not leave him. He waited, and waited, drowning in his loss, and then he let himself drift back down to Earth.

He sat down heavily into the passenger's seat of the Bentley; turned to regard the empty driver's side. “Yes, right.” He said weakly, and switched sides. “It'll just be you and me, I'm afraid.” He told the car. Its engine sputtered pathetically before it slowly pulled away. It drove below the speed limit the whole way back to London.

.

Aziraphale could count on one hand the times that he had slept during his existence. It had never felt worthwhile- there was so much world to experience, so much to accomplish in the time he was given. But he needed to do something to abate this relentless anguish. And so when Aziraphale entered the bookshop, he walked unseeing past the stacks, straight to the sofa he had for many years considered Crowley's, where the demon had spent so many nights lounging with a glass of wine. He collapsed onto the cushions and buried his face in a throw pillow, the lingering scent of campfire and potting soil and incense greeting him. He shut his eyes tight against a fresh wave of sorrow, hoping that come morning he would find this all to be a terrible misunderstanding. Crowley would burst through the door with those flaky croissants from the bakery down the street, and they would celebrate the new world.

The following morning Aziraphale woke, and Crowley did not.

He watched the harsh sunlight filter through the curtained windows, waited for the ring of the bell- always too loud as Crowley swung the door dramatically to indicate his arrival. The sun rose and fell, the dim light of sunset leaving the shop in an otherworldly glow when the bell finally sounded. Aziraphale sprung from the couch, hair flattened to his face and clothes rumpled. He turned the corner into the shopfront, only to be met with two disapproving scowls.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel regarded him coldly, Sandalphon flanking him on the right. Aziraphale stared in response, meeting their grim expressions with one of his own. The three angels regarded each other for a long moment. Gabriel raised his eyebrows, pointedly looking Aziraphale up and down. He shook his head disapprovingly.

“What are you doing here, Gabriel?” Aziraphale refused to rise to the bait.

“You could at least get a decent suit. The humans make such nice clothes. But anyway, not why we're here. We've got word from the Almighty.”

“She spoke to you directly?” He couldn't keep the hope from his voice.

“To speak to the Metatron is to speak to the Almighty, Aziraphale.”

“Yes, yes, I know the party line. Did they mention the demon Crowley?”

“What? Of course not. Why would She?” Gabriel paused, sighing in frustration before muttering, “I don't understand why she's letting you keep your wings. Of course you're asking about the stupid demon again. No, Aziraphale, She did not mention your Adversary-Traitor-Boyfriend. He's been eliminated, nothing more to discuss. This is about your job.”

Aziraphale wilted, the final remnants of hope washing away at Gabriel's casual remark _“eliminated,” eliminated. Eliminated,_ the word crashed over him. She hadn't heard him after all. He vaguely listened as Gabriel went on to explain that he was getting permanently stationed to Earth. He would keep his wings, but he would no longer be admitted back to Heaven, and was henceforth relieved from his duties. The archangel delivered the news with such smugness, clearly expecting Aziraphale to plead, or beg forgiveness, or fall to his knees. He couldn't know how wrong he was; how Aziraphale hoped to never step foot into that sterile, unforgiving place again.

“Oh, pity,” Aziraphale allowed the contempt to drip from his words. Sandalphon stepped forward menacingly, but Gabriel put a hand to his chest. He narrowed his eyes, jaw clenching with concealed frustration.

“You won't be contacted by us again, Aziraphale. You're on your own.” Gabriel stated, and the archangels turned and walked out.

He was on his own. Aziraphale allowed his gaze to wander around the quiet shop, darkening as the final traces of sunlight escaped out the window. _Thus ends the first day of the rest of my life_ , he thought as a fresh wave of panic began to swell around him. He turned and hurried back to the couch, allowing the comforting smell to ease him into a dreamless sleep.

.

He floated in a sea of listless semi-consciousness for an indeterminate amount of time before a passing thought forced Aziraphale back to the surface.

“Crowley's plants!” He cried out wretchedly, lifting his head from the cushions with such speed that his vision swirled momentarily.

He had known the demon kept houseplants- in 1842 Crowley had talked Aziraphale's ear off about his orchid collection, which apparently was widely envied by the crazed Victorians of the time. And he had caught a brief glimpse of greenery when he'd entered Crowley's flat that dreadful day. Oh, the poor dears would be dreadfully wilted by now. It wouldn't do to allow them to suffer- Aziraphale must retrieve them.

So he willed himself to abandon this morbid languishing, donning a fresh suit from his closet and working his hair into a somewhat more organized tousle. The Bentley seemed glad to be of service, and they were outside Crowley's flat in half the time he had expected- the car must have learned a few hellish habits from its owner.

Aziraphale stood outside the flat, wringing his hands miserably, mind firmly trapped in the memory of his last visit. He wasn't sure what he had been thinking coming here- he couldn't go back up to that flat. Crowley wasn't there, it was surely still a mess from all that had happened before. He should just head back to the shop, forget all this silliness.

“Sir,” he turned to see a short young man regarding him with a somewhat concerned expression, “Is someone expecting you?” Ah, yes, the doorman. He hadn't bothered checking in last time he was here.

“Well, er, I suppose not. You see, my friend lives here, but he wouldn't be expecting me. He typically comes round to mine, you see. I don't find myself in the neighborhood often. Not that it's not a lovely neighborhood, mind you. Oh, goodness, my apologies.” He uttered as he realized the doorman had not meant to receive his life story, and was now staring at him wide-eyed.

“Sir, the name please? I can check if you're on the list.”

“Right. I wouldn't be on any list, but I assure you we're old friends. His name is Anthony Crowley, he's lived here for-”

“Ah, yes, you must be Mr. Fell!” The doorman lit up, “Mr. Crowley has told me, 'If he ever comes by, you best not give him any trouble or there will be Hell to pay,' the old grouch. Bark's worse than his bite, that one. I was beginning to think you didn't exist!”

“Oh,” Aziraphale replied lamely. Crowley had mentioned him? Had expected he might one day stop by? The thought pulled painfully at his heart.

“Right this way, I'll ring you on through,” Aziraphale followed after the suddenly very chatty doorman, “Lota the staff think he's a scrooge, but I tell you, that Mr. Crowley's a fine man. Slips me a nice holiday card every year, always says 'Ello at the door. You don't tell him I said none of that, though. Let him keep the illusion, I know he likes the mystery.”

“That he does,” Aziraphale smiled weakly at the man. He thought he might burst into tears at any moment, “Thank you ever so much for your help, I can find my way from here. May you have a blessed day,” Aziraphale felt the minor miracle flow out of him as he shook the young man's hand, ensuring he'd receive that raise he'd been hoping for. His wife had just had a baby, after all, and he deserved it.

He shook off a mounting surge of anxiety as he made his way up the narrow stairway, echoes of the demonic aura he'd felt days ago (weeks? He really wasn't sure) rippling in his memory. His fear lapped at his ankles, clambering, clawing to still him as he reached the top of the staircase. He'd shut the door of Crowley's apartment when he'd last left, and he stared achingly at the barrier, which felt impassable now. His feet were caught in wet, sinking sand as the waves dragged him forward and paralyzed him at once. With herculean effort and images of wilted pot plants, he pulled himself free of his crashing fears and trudged onward.

The door opened onto a tomb, unearthly quiet and cold. The bustling sounds of London seemed to fall away as he stepped inside, swallowed up by the bone-chilling stillness of the apartment. The smell hit him immediately- the brackish holiness penetrated the entire space, mingled with the acrid rot of Hell. All of his senses cried for him to leave this place, so clear as it was that life was no longer welcome here.

He stepped forward, one step, then another and another until he was standing in a very modern living room, though he wouldn't call it such. There was nothing personal, nothing lived-in, nothing Crowley about this space. He wandered through the room, gazing at the board-like couch and furniture that could cut you, and wondered how on Earth Crowley had lived here. Crowley, who seemed his most comfortable curled around a glass of wine on Aziraphale's lumpy old couch. It seemed the sharp mask he put out toward the world even extended to his living space. Had the poor dear not even allowed himself peace in his own home? It was no wonder he was always strung tight as a bow string.

Aziraphale walked through the seemingly untouched flat, timidly making his way toward the room where he remembered glimpsing that greenery. Unfortunately, this required him to pass through the last place he'd laid eyes on Crowley. The foul amalgamation of holiness and death was impossibly thick as he reached the threshold. The acrid puddle marked the room for what it was- dangerous; condemned. Aziraphale stared at the mark, which appeared to still bubble and ooze, and imagined it as a different demon melted onto the floor. He let out a stuttering breath and blinked away the salty tears that fogged his vision, flicking his wrist to remove the remains. The smell lingered, a nauseating reminder of the consequence of introducing his holiness into Crowley's existence.

He finally forced himself to glance into the room, half-expecting to see Crowley knelt on the ground, looking to him with hope of a rescue that he would fail to provide. Instead, he found the room as barren as the rest of the flat. A massive throne sat at the table, and Aziraphale almost rolled his eyes at the absurdity of it. But there, on the table, was that a book? Yes, opened and everything, as though Crowley had actually been _reading_ , perish the thought. Desperate for any glimmer of the demon in this sterile place, he approached the book and glanced at the page it was opened to. His heart constricted painfully at the sight, memories tugging him under once again.

_Alpha Centauri_. The binary star-system stared up at him from the page, and he crumpled into the ridiculous throne at the knowledge that Crowley had been the last one looking at this page. He'd chosen this star-system, pleaded with Aziraphale to join him there.

“I should have gone with you, dearest,” his voice in the heavy silence was startling despite his whisper, “I wanted to go with you. I'm so terribly sorry.” And the tendrils of pain finally found their hold, winding tightly around him, dragging him deep into his grief. He laid a shaking hand on the page, tracing the edge of the bright star, his other hand moving to swipe at his eyes as his vision fogged. There was salt in the air now, the holy water filling his lungs as he tried to breathe, his gasps shallow and futile. He needed to leave this tomb, he couldn't sit here surrounded by the remains of the facade of a home. But this was all that was left of Crowley, as false as it was, and he couldn't bring himself to move, couldn't walk away knowing he had nothing else of his friend. He stared around at the immaculate room, dug his fingers into the absurd chair, and caught a glimpse of green.

The plants! He was here for the plants. A glimpse of purpose caused the clawing emotions to loosen their hold, just enough that he was able to struggle free, make a break for the surface. He pulled in a deep breath, closed his eyes to settle himself, and stood. The plants seemed to peek around the corner, reaching for the only other life form in this uninhabitable place. He walked into the bright room and halted instantly, too stunned to go another step. Crowley had told him he grew plants, but he wasn't prepared for _this_. Crowley must be the best gardener in England, possibly the world. These were the most vibrant, lush plants Aziraphale had ever seen, and he'd been invited to walk through many gardens in his long existence. They somehow hadn't wilted despite the lack of water since... well.

He finally moved forward, extending a hand to brush an enormous green leaf. The plant instantly began shaking, fear pouring off of it in waves. “Oh, you poor dear, what did he do to you?” He whispered soothingly, stroking the leaf fondly. He glanced around again, just now noticing the waves of terror emanating from _all_ the plants.

A memory surged around him, of Crowley visiting the book shop one spring long ago. Aziraphale had gotten a houseplant for the register that year- something he rarely did as he often forgot to water them until they dried up to nothing. Crowley had gotten one look at the plant and narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms as he sauntered over to it, stooping down so he was at eye level with the new guest. _“You got a plant.” _He'd stated the fact with such menace it sent Aziraphale back a step or two. He'd been so baffled by the reaction that he'd just tottered off to make some tea for them, hoping the plant would be forgotten by the time he returned. But when he came back with two cups of steaming chamomile, Crowley was still hovering over the plant with his back to Aziraphale, whispering something sharp and biting. _“-and if you don't meet these expectations-”_ Aziraphale had cleared his throat as he strode into the room, cutting off the statement. Crowley bolted upright and assumed his usual unfazed posture, mumbling something about studies and talking to plants and growth rates. They'd had their tea and Crowley had left, and by the time he'd dropped into the bookshop a few years later, the plant had met the fate of all its predecessors. Crowley had actually asked after it, and when he learned of its passing, scolded Aziraphale on his gardening skills. He'd told him, _“You have to water plants, Angel. But that doesn't mean you should let them get too comfortable, otherwise they'll think they can call the shots. Gotta lead with a firm hand. Next time you get a plant I'll give you a crash course.”___

__Now, Aziraphale looked at all these terrified plants and imagined Crowley had given them quite a firm hand, indeed. Though, he had to admit, there must be something to his methods, since these plants were absolutely _gorgeous_. He told them so as he walked around the room, cooing and settling them down. “Don't you worry, now, I'll get you all watered and taken care of. Don't be afraid.” Once the general trembling in the room subsided, he miracled up a watering can and replenished all the parched soil. Then he stared around at the rather full room and pondered, “What am I to do with all of you?” He knew he wouldn't be able to return to this dreadful place again- it was too heavy with the pain of what had transpired here. No, he would have to bring them along with him._ _

__He picked up a small plant with soft, felt-like leaves. He smiled as he imagined Crowley growing something so gentle, imagined the demon allowing this woolly plant to melt a bit of his rigid veneer. Then he snapped, transporting the rest of the plants to the flat above his shop. With the same miracle he expanded his living space a bit, allowing room around the newly-cleaned windows for the plants to get plenty of sunlight._ _

__He regarded the downy-grey leaves of the plant in his arms, rubbed a fuzzy leaf between two fingers. “I'm going to take care of you, don't you worry,” he assured the plant, “We are going to get through this. We will get through this.” And with his new ward cradled in his arms, Aziraphale walked out of Crowley's apartment and into the new life he would need to learn to weather on his own._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for continuing to read! The next update might be a bit later than usual due to the holidays. But I'll try to get back to it soon. <3


	6. Act II, Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There are a hundred places where I fear  
>  To go,—so with his memory they brim.   
> And entering with relief some quiet place   
> Where never fell his foot or shone his face   
> I say, “There is no memory of him here!”   
> And so stand stricken, so remembering him._
> 
> _Another excerpt from "Time Does Not Bring Relief" by Edna St. Vincent Millay_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all had lovely holidays!
> 
> I was struck with a bad case of writer's block, so sorry if this chapter is a bit clunky. I might go back and edit it but I wanted to get it out there to you all.

By the time Aziraphale finished his tour of the cottage, the sun had set. Catherine told him about a lovely little inn where he could stay in the neighboring town, so he decided that sounded like just the thing. He could spend the following day meeting his soon-to-be neighbors and sampling the local dining options.

In the dark, he couldn't make out much of the town as he passed the closed-up storefronts and shuttered windows. But the inn glowed, a welcoming beacon with candles in every window. He checked in with the charming young woman at the front desk, received a large brass key, and climbed a narrow set of stairs to a cozy nook of a room. He settled in, conjuring a book from the shop to read and a mug of cocoa to sip while he waited for morning. He was buzzing with excitement. But as the night wore on, he grew restless, doubts lapping at the back of his mind.

Was he truly ready to leave London? The bookshop, the bustling city, and everything it represented? Was he making a ridiculous decision? He shook the thought away- this was the correct move. It was time to step forward, and this seemed like just the place to take that step. He blew on his steaming drink and let the action ground him.

When the sun reached an angle that seemed appropriate for an early bird to rise, Aziraphale snapped his book shut and tidied the room before embarking.

“Time to 'hit the town,'” he mused to himself as he gave his bow tie one final adjustment in the mirror.

The town was absolutely charming. There were four distinct antique shops full of an array of knick knacks that would look darling nestled onto shelves and end tables at the cottage. He even found a snuff box unlike any in his collection. There was a bakery with scrumptious petit fours, and a Mediterranean restaurant whose baba ganoush rivaled that which he could find in London. He traversed the town with a pep in his step, greeting each new face with a glowing smile and a warm hello.

All the humans in this town were just lovely, and each one was warm and welcoming when they heard he'd be moving into the cottage. Many of them were friendly with Catherine and Clyde. Sentiments around town seemed to be that they were the perfect couple, and it had been a true loss for everyone when Clyde had passed. Aziraphale tried to be sympathetic as people spoke in hushed toned about Catherine's grief, but it was difficult when the words affected him so. As the day wore on, and more well-wishers reminisced about the couple, Aziraphale found he was losing a grip on his light mood. Storm clouds seemed to be brewing overhead, and he felt the urge to escape all the sympathetic eyes.

At the recommendation of one of the locals, he headed off toward a secluded beach just a mile and a half from town. Aziraphale walked the winding roads through the small village toward it, trying his best to shake off the impending storm. He focused on the lovely day, tried to enjoy the balmy evening air and the ocean breeze that greeted him as he approached the shore. The sounds of crashing waves swelled as he neared the water, and he gave up the pretense. He was walking into his own stormy sea, he knew that. But he collected his resolve and carried himself forward, meeting the shoreline and disregarding the water that swiftly drenched his oxfords.

He stared out at the grey, frothing sea and filled his lungs with the salty air. Here he stood, on the shore of a beach in a town where he had just purchased a small cottage. A cottage by the sea. He would be leaving London, the only place he'd called home for hundreds of years, the place with all those memories he couldn't bear to face. Instead, he would face these tumbling waves, a real ocean- one never graced by Crowley's presence.

He bent down into the sea foam to pick up a smooth, weathered rock, rubbed it between his fingers. He stared at his fingers, the hand holding the stone. He counted the tendons and veins of that hand, weathered by the passage of millennia. He had a meticulous regiment to keep them manicured; keep some control over the corruption of time. He'd heard once that a human's body completely regenerates every seven years- not a single skin cell remains from the life before. He wondered if the same was true of his corporation; of these angelic hands. Were these the same cells from the Garden, or had this vessel cleansed itself of all those old stories? All those years ago, Adam had told him that he'd made Aziraphale one of theirs- one of the humans'. Perhaps he shed his old self the same way. If that were true, it would follow that he was precisely twelve bodies removed from Crowley. These hands weren't the hands that had grazed his over a cherished briefcase. These eyes that looked out over a churning sea were twelve removed from those that had studied the sharp lines of his serpentine fellow. Dread roiled in his gut.

And now here he was shedding another layer of his old life- the life that they had shared, in the limited capacity that they were able. But he had wanted to share so much more, so much that he had never whispered, so much that they could have shared while it counted. Like these hands, entwined with lean, weedy-boned counterparts. Like words exchanged in the quiet safety of the backroom of his shop. Like a cottage by the sea.

There had been so many opportunities to share his love with Crowley. Looking back, he could see so clearly all the ways Crowley had shared with him. Where Aziraphale had rejected as much as an acquaintance with his Adversary, Crowley stood brave and undeterred, hand outstretched in the hope that Aziraphale might one day take it. No matter how many times Aziraphale had met Crowley's kindness with a hurtful word, crushed down his friend's attempts to reach out, he had never withdrawn his hand. But now those hands had washed away, along with all the gentle acts and unabashed words and patience of the being they belonged to. Aziraphale had never reached out in return; had missed every opportunity Crowley offered him. And here was that cottage by the sea, imperfect and exactly right, the one that was made for the pair of them to build a life together. And it was too late- Aziraphale was alone.

He didn't know if he could move on to a new life when it meant giving up the traces of one where they'd brushed past each other, as close as they ever would be to taking hold of something shared. But he needed to move on; he couldn't continue wading through the streets of London, saturated as they were with Crowley's presence. It was too difficult to fight off the rising waters when he was surrounded by clawing memories.

But here on this shore, his wet shoes standing where Crowley's own had never met, Aziraphale's heart ached as heavily as ever. And understanding finally crashed over him. He had come here looking for an escape from the pain of all those memories, all the moments he'd been running from for nearly a century. But there would be no relief from the grief that flooded him, not here or anywhere on Earth. A sense of determination filled him, and Aziraphale took a step forward, water infiltrating the hems of his trousers. All these years he'd spent avoiding the churning waves within him had done nothing to help him move on, because there was no moving on from Crowley. Aziraphale took another step, and another, and another. All these years turning away from any thought of his beloved friend, forcing his lifetime of memories into a single day under a tree. The water seeped through his waistcoat and he gasped at the chill of it as he waded further into the cold, tumbling sea. He had done an injustice to Crowley, continuing to push him away even in death, just to allow himself the comfort of not remembering. He leaned into an oncoming wave and he was submerged, surrendered to the will of the tides, allowing the sea to envelop him.

.

_He watched the demon walk away, its gait every bit the Serpent, and wondered if he ought to have smote it. It would have been the angelic thing to do, smiting a demon. But the angelic thing was also to show mercy and understanding to all of God's creatures, and wasn't this demon included in that? He stared after the retreating form, now just a dark spot on the desert horizon, and felt an uncomfortable itch in his chest._

_Why had he been friendly with it? Sure, it had been the one to approach him first, but that must have been an attempt to lower his defenses, or plant a seed of doubt in his mind. Oh, and it had worked, hadn't it? Here he was questioning,_ again _, so quick to doubt his actions, his role in the plan. But Crawley- that's what he'd called himself- hadn't been acting particularly demonic just now. He'd just been sitting there, unaware- it would have been so easy to strike him down. And with Aziraphale's approach he seemed almost relaxed- he'd even had the audacity to_ tease _him. And Aziraphale had teased him back, what_ was _he thinking? The demon may have acted friendly, smiled at Aziraphale like none of the other angels ever seemed to, but that didn't make him any less dangerous. Ignoring the itching in his chest, Aziraphale pledged to be more cautious with his Adversary in the future, if they were ever to meet again._

.

Every instinct in him cried for the surface, to push away the suffocating memory. He willed himself to relax into it instead, the current of the sea pulling him deeper under.

.

_Aziraphale caught a glimpse of red hair as the wind whipped at the lone figure- that was Crawley sitting there in the middle of the desert. It was just hours after the crucifixion, and he hadn't expected to find anyone else out here, but he supposed they did have a knack for running into each other._

_He approached silently, uncertain whether his presence would be welcome. It had been many years since he'd last seen the demon, and the circumstances that brought them both here were taxing, to put it lightly. Really, he ought to turn around- head back to town. Surely Crawley meant to be left to herself, if she went through the trouble of coming all the way out here. But as he neared the dark form, his stomach twisted at the sound of heavy, hitched breathing._

_“Crawley?” He spoke gently, but still managed to startle the demon into a flurry of hissing movement. He put up his arms soothingly, meeting the harsh glare with what he hoped was a placating one._

_Crawley looked more demonic than Aziraphale was accustomed to- eyes completely yellow and fangs bared. The thought crossed his mind that he ought to be afraid, but he couldn't bring himself to feel anything but compassion at the cornered look of the demon. Then Crowley seemed to recognize him and uncoiled a bit, fangs receding and eyes returning to a slightly more human appearance._

_“Terribly sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.”_

_“Can't scare a demon. And it's Crowley now.” Crowley snapped back, but the effect was diminished by the sniffling that followed. The demon's eyes were red-rimmed, face flushed. She turned away._

_“Yes, right. Crowley, have you been crying?” Aziraphale asked, wary. Could demons even cry? What would be the purpose of that?_

_“Don't be a bastard,” the response was muttered, no real fire in it, and Aziraphale stepped forward, uncertain. He didn't understand this urge to close the distance, to soothe his clearly distraught enemy. But as Crowley shrunk away, hiding her face behind her veil, Aziraphale didn't see his Adversary, could only see a being in need of comfort._

_“He meant something to you?” He asked quietly, taking another step forward. Crowley turned back toward him, a guarded look on her face._

_“He meant something to the world, Angel. He was Her son, and She fed him to the wolves, let them tear him apart like everything else good.” She spat the last word like it was foul, but her trembling voice betrayed her. “How could She do that? How can She expect them to learn love and kindness when She so clearly has none of it Herself?”_

_The words made Aziraphale squirm; they were too closely mirrored by those in his own heart- all those questions he worked so hard to push down. He fidgeted with his robes as he tried to think of a response, but there was just the one. The only one he had, the one he clung to desperately in times like these, “It's ineff-”_

_“_ Don't _.” Crowley growled, warning, “Don't say that. Not now.”_

_Aziraphale watched her, searching for the right words and coming up short. The demon's hellfire hair fell into her face, and he had the sudden urge to brush it back. He looked away, guilt and doubt scratching at him painfully._

_“Crowley,” he started, then paused before resigning himself, “I'm sorry for disturbing you. I- I should go.” Crowley met his eyes again, and they were a deep well of confusion and pain and Aziraphale thought he might fall into them, so he broke the contact. They stood in silence for several moments, in which he felt the sharp gaze on him as he stared at his feet. Then there was a sigh, and Crowley moved away._

_“I suppose you should.” She answered, voice cool and level. Aziraphale glanced back to see her posture had closed off, arms crossed over her chest, shoulders drawn high. She wouldn't meet his gaze again. Aziraphale hesitated, the thing in his chest telling him to stay, to put out the fires that were so evident behind Crowley's eyes. But he knew it was a dangerous game he was playing. Instead, he turned and walked back the way he had come, sandaled feet kicking up hot sand as he retreated._

_._

_Aziraphale's heart warmed as he watched Crowley's posture loosen. He was surprised when the demon had accepted his offer for lunch- he'd been certain their fragile truce had been ruined those few years ago. But here they sat, eating oysters, and he'd even convinced Crowley to try one, and it felt somewhat like forgiveness. And Crowley lounged easily in his chair, looking relaxed as Aziraphale indulged in another slice of this cake the humans had made with cheese. It was delectable, and he was sure he saw a slight smile creep over Crowley's face as he described to him the unique flavors._

_They talked and drank well into the night, and Aziraphale paid no mind to the uncomfortable thing in his chest. There was no one else on Earth- or Heaven, if he was being honest with himself- he could talk to like this, and he was going to allow himself to enjoy the company, just this once._

.

The memories swam around him, twisting and pulling. The angles of Crowley's limbs as he draped himself over the chair. The way the sun always caught his hair and set it alight. How the closer he allowed himself to get to the demon, the warmer his heart would grow in response. He ached, and he drifted deeper.

.

_“Lift home?” Crowley's retreating form asked over his shoulder as he sauntered toward the street. Aziraphale stood, stricken, the itch in his chest pouring out, and he was sure he must be glowing with it. He couldn't ignore the feeling any longer, not here, not when Crowley had saved him once again, despite the fact they hadn't spoken in nearly a century; in spite of the cruel words Aziraphale had once again slung at him. In spite of everything. He tottered after the demon, briefcase clasped to his chest in a desperate attempt to keep his heart from overflowing onto the passenger's seat._

_He stared at his counterpart the whole drive back, a dark profile on an even darker street. A smile played at the corner of Crowley's lips, and he could see him glance over from behind his lenses. Aziraphale blushed with embarrassment as he looked away- he must have looked like a lovesick puppy._

_“Forgive me, my dear,” he said primly, “it's just good to see you, that's all. After everything- well. It's good to see you.”_

_A tension he hadn't noticed bled from Crowley as he puffed out a sigh. He smiled shyly, “I missed you, too, Angel.”_

_._

_They sat on the hood of the Bentley, and Aziraphale was approximately one-quarter-of-a-bottle-of-scotch past drunk. He was enjoying the comfortable silence and the easy closeness of his companion. It wasn't always like this, but tonight was one of the rare nights where everything felt calm and sides could be momentarily forgotten. An assignment had found them both out in the country, and his work had been successful, and he felt light. He laid back, felt Crowley follow shortly beside him, and stared up at the stars._

_“They really are quite lovely.” He said softly._

_Crowley hummed in agreement, and Aziraphale thought they'd fallen back into silence when he heard a gentle, “Did I ever tell you I made some of them?”_

_Aziraphale turned, startled, to find Crowley already staring back, bringing their faces closer than he had expected. You'd hardly ever catch the demon without his sunglasses, even in the evening, but he had tossed them aside at some point during their drunken banter. Aziraphale found himself ensnared by the gaze. As he felt the moment drag on, Crowley's look became tentative, and he realized he probably expected some acknowledgment._

_“Did you- did you really?” Aziraphale managed to respond, breaking away to look back up at the sky, “You must show me which ones. Point them out.”_

_“Ah, nah,” Crowley's tone was as aloof as ever, “Nothing interesting. Probably can't see any of 'em from here anyway.”_

_“Nonsense, I'm sure anything that you made would be fasten- fatten- really swell, my dear.”_

_“Ngk.” Crowley replied._

_“You know, I was just reading something about stars,” Aziraphale wasn't discouraged by the dramatic groan he received from his side, “Let me see. Yes- we can see it. Look, right there.” He pointed up at a bright blue star, encouraged by Crowley's affirmative grumble._

_“It's called Alpha Cent- Centauri AB. It looks like a single star, yes? Well, my dear, as it turns out, it is_ two _stars. A star system! They're orbiting around each other. They're so close that to the human eye- or angel eye, as it were- they appear to be a single star. For the longest time we didn't even know there were two of them up there. Imagine that.” He giggled. Crowley was quiet beside him. “I find that to be rather romantic. Two beings, circling each other so closely that they can hide in plain site. For thousands of years! Like a clandestine affair.”_

_The silence folded over them, and in it, Aziraphale realized he may have revealed too much. He prayed that perhaps Crowley had miraculously passed out during his speech. He began to fiddle with a button on his waistcoat as he looked to his right. Crowley was not asleep, but rather, was staring back intensely, and the look was so open it stole his breath. They stared at each other for a long moment that felt too much like a confession. As if under a spell, he felt himself lean closer, drawn in by the feeling that threatened to pour out of him._

_“Angel.” Crowley's voice was hushed and vulnerable._

_Aziraphale blinked rapidly and cleared his throat, sitting up. He purged the alcohol from his system, wincing as sobriety allowed him to feel the full weight of what had just passed between them._

_“Apologies, dear boy, but I've just remembered I've got a, er, a thing. An appointment.” He stammered as he stood up, brushing nervously at his jacket._

_“Wha?” Crowley sat up, slightly wobbly, beside him, “It's late. Where could you possibly need to go right now?”_

_Aziraphale was already walking hurriedly back toward the road, back toward the safety of town. He called back over his shoulder. “Evil never sleeps, Crowley, you of all people should know that. And therefore, neither can I.”_

_“Wuh. Well, at least let me drive you back, it's miles away!” Crowley shouted after him._

_“No- no need. Lovely night for a walk. Cheerio!”_

_He left Crowley staring after him, not sparing a look back to see whatever expression might have played across his face. He'd returned to London the same night. Eight months later, Aziraphale would catch wind of a certain heist involving a certain church. But until then, and for several years after, he would thoroughly avoid the demon._

_._

_Aziraphale sat at his desk, head in hand, reading a strongly worded letter from Head Office. Another massacre, the largest since the second World War. He was being reprimanded for failing to keep the Adversary at bay. According to the letter, he'd let his enemy slip past and cause this disaster, and now Gabriel was threatening intervention- a change of post._

_The bell of the shop chimed, too loud. Something ominous roiled in his gut. He didn't look up at the click of snakeskin boots on the shop floor._

_“How could you?” He said darkly. The clicking stopped with an intake of breath. In the following silence, anger flared within him._

_“How_ could _you?” He repeated, words sharp and firm._

_“Az-” The sound was choked, cut off by a string of inarticulate syllables before he continued. “I didn't- I wouldn't. You know I wouldn't.” And Aziraphale did know. But the letter sat heavy in his hand, a threat and a reminder of which side they both belonged. He finally looked up to see Crowley, hands open in a desperate plea, expression as miserable as Aziraphale felt. In his hand was another letter, from a different head office. They were on opposite sides. He stared intently at the letter, unable to look into the face of its recipient. How did he manage a look of such pain, such betrayal, with sunglasses on?_

_“I'm sure you got another commendation for this one.” He forced the words out past the lump in his throat, didn't let any emotion creep past his stoic exterior._

_There was stuttering as Crowley worked up to, “Yeah. But I didn't do it, not this. Please, Aziraphale-”_

_“You need to leave, Crowley.”_

_The silence that followed threatened to strangle him._ Opposite sides, _the thought surged through his head like a mantra, keeping him from breaking,_ opposite sides. _The paper of the letter in Crowley's hand was creased all over, as though it had been crumpled and then smoothed back out. He fixed his eyes on it, couldn't waver even when he noticed the hand holding it was shaking. Then it was gone as Crowley turned without another word and left the shop. The bell chimed, too loud, as the door slammed shut._

.

So many times he'd pushed away, forced their friendship back when all Crowley had looked for was acceptance- someone to lean on. Regret and guilt slithered around him, heavy as an anchor, dragging him to his darkest depths. He considered how far he must have drifted- perhaps he'd float down into the Marianas Trench. He couldn't face the surface now, anyway. He let the pressing remorse pull him deeper still.

.

_“Of course you'd lie, you're a demon, that's what you do.”_

_._

_“He's not my friend. We don't even know each other.”_

_._

_“We are an angel and a demon. We have nothing whatsoever in common. I don't even like you.”_

.

Then there was Crowley, unrelentingly patient and too good. No matter what Aziraphale said, no matter what he did, Crowley was there- meeting his rejection with unending devotion. Aziraphale's constant throughout his long life; a raft in a harrowing storm of a world.

.

_“I'll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go.”_

_._

_“How long have we been friends? 6,000 years.”_

_._

_“We can run away together. Alpha Centauri.”_

_._

_Aziraphale hummed to himself as he took inventory- relieved to find he had managed not to sell a single book this quarter. The familiar tune jingled around in his head- some bebop he'd heard Crowley play on the radio. Oh, Crowley. He shook thoughts of his friend- no, Adversary- from his mind, focusing himself back on the task at hand. It was futile, though- his thoughts were rather full of the fiend recently._

_His mind supplied a very unhelpful image of that letter Crowley had been holding- his commendation for the massacre. Creased and torn- Crowley had clearly tried to destroy it. A cold pit formed in his stomach when he recalled the harsh tone he'd taken with the demon- and the shaking of Crowley's hands, his wavering voice. Aziraphale knew how hard it was for him to receive praise for human's cruelty- he'd seen the drunken aftermath many times throughout history. Perhaps he should call and make sure he wasn't getting into too much trouble. No, no, he shouldn't._ Opposite sides _, he reminded himself firmly. He knew he was doing the right thing- they couldn't keep up this charade of a friendship, especially when he was on such thin ice with Upstairs. So why did it feel like he'd done something so very wrong? Why did an icy chill sweep over him whenever he thought of the way Crowley had slammed the door as he left? He shook the feeling away again, adjusting his glasses to look down at another row of titles. No matter- it was better this way; safer. They were on opposite sides. Yes, maybe he'd hurt Crowley's feelings, and maybe he regretted that. But it was better this way._

_“Angel,” he heard the shout as the door to the shop swung open._

_“Crowley?” He walked out of the backroom just in time to nearly collide with the other. Crowley looked wretched. And how were they suddenly so_ close? _Aziraphale could practically feel the nervous energy pouring off of him._

_“Listen, I'm sorry. I know I can't convince you this wasn't me. But, please. Just-” and now Crowley was touching him, grasping desperately at his shoulders, pulling him in. They didn't touch- an unspoken rule- but now they were so close Aziraphale could see a glint of yellow behind his glasses. The narrow fingers practically burned where they clung to his jacket, and he could feel his fragile resolve slipping away, “I don't want to do this- not again. We work better together, yes? C'mon, just- Go-Sat-_ Someone _, angel, tell me what you want me to do.”_

_Aziraphale stared into the dark lenses, feeling his own panic rising, heart breaking at the unfairness of it all. Weren't God's tests meant for the humans? Hadn't he proven himself loyal enough over the years? Although he supposed when it came to Crowley, he had always fallen short of his Angelic duties. He could feel Crowley's fingers trembling against him._

_“Don't make me beg, it's humiliating.” And how was Crowley always capable of such honesty, weren't demons meant to be devious? Aziraphale wondered, not for the first time, what he must have been like Before. If he still had this much patience, this much forgiveness for Aziraphale's cruelty, he must have been a saint Before._

_He felt the grip on his shoulders tighten for a moment before he was released. Crowley took a few steps away, hands clenched at his sides and a fierce furrow between his brows. He looked as though he'd been struck, and Aziraphale realized he had let the silence speak for him. Still, it dragged on between them- he didn't know how to break it, didn't know if he should. Another moment, and Crowley sagged before him. His expression closed off, knit itself back into the carefully impervious glare._

_“Right, okay.” He said, composed. “See you around, Angel. Ciao.” He turned away, and all of Aziraphale's resistance finally snapped. He was moving without his own consent, stepping forward, arm reaching out to grab Crowley's wrist._

_“Don't.” The word slipped out, unbidden. He didn't know how to follow it, and seconds ticked by._

_Crowley froze, tense. He looked down at where their hands met, seemed to study the contact._

_“Don't what?” He croaked._

_“Just. Don't.” Aziraphale repeated, rather dumbly._

_Crowley turned back toward him, the mask pulled back again to reveal all the desperation beneath. They both held their breath, so much suspended in that moment._

_“I still have a bottle of that Riesling from Germany.” Aziraphale offered. Crowley stared at him, blinked a few times, then let out a sigh, abandoning the tension he'd been holding. He ran a hand through his hair, failing at assuming a casual stance._

_“The one we got from Hantzsch?”_

_“The very same.”_

_“Well, then. After you.” Crowley bowed theatrically toward the wine cellar. Aziraphale smiled back at him, chest warming at the timid smile he received in return. Whatever this fragile thing was between them, it wouldn't break today._

_._

__Aziraphale broke through the surface, allowed the cool air to pour back into his lungs. He wiped the salt from his eyes, only to find his vision flooded once more. He let the tears fall freely, mourned the memory anew. Because that's not how it had gone. No, that's only how he'd wished he'd done it when he'd replayed the moment for years afterward. In reality, he had remained frozen in his fear. Just like in every other moment when it counted, he had failed his friend. He'd let Crowley walk out the door. They hadn't spoken again until the night Crowley delivered Adam.

Aziraphale had pushed down that moment, alongside so many others, for so long- refusing to face all the pain he had smothered them both with. Now, as he stared up at the grey ocean sky, steeping himself in all their shared history, he let himself feel it. All the loss, all the grief, all the love he'd held close to his heart poured out into the water. The tears fell, hot on his chilled skin, and he imagined what Crowley would say if he could see him now. He'd probably be lost for words, watching the stuck-up angel ruining his clothes in the ocean. He imagined Crowley standing on the shore, stuttering inarticulately, eyebrows at his hairline. The thought pulled a hiccuping laugh from him, despite everything.

“Oh, Crowley,” he sighed, “how I wish you were here.”

Then he let himself drift back to shore. He sat heavily when the land greeted him, digging his fingers into the gravel and sand.

This place- the cottage and the lovely shops and this churning sea- would have been perfect for the two of them. He fiddled with a stone, felt the smooth surface under his weathered skin, and blinked the last salty tears from his eyes. He would have to do it alone, but he must still do it- for the both of them. And he would do it while embracing every thought of Crowley. There would be no more turning away; no more denying the past. Crowley was gone, and he would not be returning, but Aziraphale would live with all the memories they'd shared while he had him. He closed his hand around the rock, the firm sensation of it matching his growing resolve.

_First things first, angel,_ he imagined the smooth voice leaning close, _Are you going to miracle your suit clean or do you need me to do it?_ He smiled, took a steadying breath, and cast the water from his suit back into the ocean. Then, clean and with a new sense of courage, he stood to face the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap on Part 2!


	7. Act III, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback to the events of Armageddon, as told by a very foolish Adam Young.
> 
> or
> 
> We finally learn what the heck happened

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break, life seems to get ahead of you sometimes! Hope you all are still invested! <3

When Adam Young was eleven years old, he did a Very Foolish Thing. One could argue that it is in the job description of an eleven-year-old to do very foolish things, however, this one was deserving of Capitalization. It could also be argued that Adam Young, being the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness had a higher level of responsibility than the average eleven-year-old to limit his foolish actions.

Adam himself would point out that he had almost made a very large Mess of Things- Things being the Earth, and Mess being the end of it- so one Very Foolish Thing was rather commendable, all things considered. And that as a former Antichrist, it was rather impressive to have made off with only one capitalized Very Foolish Thing.

None of these, in his opinion, exceedingly valid points made him feel any less rubbish about it.

One would assume that the Antichrist- being omniscient and all-powerful and everything- would have wonderful foresight, and would therefore avoid unforeseen consequences in his planning. As it turns out, Adam Young, Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness had all of the foresight of an eleven-year-old human boy. That is to say, no foresight whatsoever. So once he'd faced down Satan himself, when he'd laid his all-knowing eyes on a certain angel and a certain demon, gazing into their deepest fears and desires, he came up with a Very Foolish Plan.

On one shoulder was the angel- emotionally stunted by six thousand years of indoctrination and repression of his true self. The only angel in ten million who was willing to stand with humanity at the end of times, and he did so alongside a demon. Yet, even now, after everything they'd been through, he still couldn't admit to the demon that they were on the same side- that they were friends. He stood hesitant, an arm's width away, unwilling- unable- to take the final steps forward. Couldn't even admit to himself whose side he was really on.

On the other shoulder stood the demon- a raging storm of emotions he wasn't even meant to be capable of feeling. Looking into his mind, Adam was swept into a hurricane of anxiety, and fear, and so much love. Love for the Earth, and love for humanity, and loads of love for the angel standing by his side. But deeper, in the eye of the storm, was the root of it. _Condemned. Unforgivable. Untouchable._ And yes, he noticed here, the way the demon held himself away from the group. Hovering, but not touching- never touching, save for a slip-up or two over the millennia. And Adam could sense the resignation- he wouldn't make another mistake, had no intention of reaching out again.

Adam saw it all, and understood none of it. In the movies, the adults get to the end of the story, then they admit they love each other and live happily ever after. What could possibly be a better end of the story than saving the whole world? But these two were never going to admit it- he could see it clear as, well, something really clear inside their heads.

Now, Adam wasn't much for mushy love stories. But this was ridiculous, and something had to be done. He'd planned to do something nice for everyone who'd helped him save the world. Pepper was getting the seven-gear bike she'd wanted (no basket or anything), Brian was gonna get new flavors of ice cream at the local parlor, and Wensleydale would get that science magazine he'd been talking about for ages. For the angel and demon, at first he thought it'd be enough if he just put everything right again- fix up the bookshop and remake Mr. Crowley's car. But looking at the two standing awkwardly together on the tarmac, hands fiddling with buttons and stuffed into pockets, he came up with a different plan entirely.

As an adult, Adam would look back on this Very Foolish Thing and place a measure of blame on the terrible messages sent by romance movies of the time. The message being: in order to get a particularly stubborn couple to admit their feelings, they must first break up or otherwise lose one another. It's a dreadfully common trope, and one that Adam had been exposed to liberally as an impressionable eleven-year-old. So, when he looked upon two beings as old as time itself, who had been unable to admit their feelings for over six-thousand years, he figured that's just about as stubborn as it gets. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Mr. Crowley had told him reality would listen to him, and so he decided he would just change it around. He blinked, and space and time fractured around him. In a flash of blinding light, he stood in an empty plane, surrounded as far as the eye could see by white dunes and clear blue skies. Crowley and Aziraphale stood on either side of him, frozen in time. With another measure of concentration, Adam forced his consciousness apart, splitting it into three.

The two other Adams took their places at the sides of their respective ethereal wards. The three boys shared a look amongst themselves.

“You take good care of 'em, now,” the original Adam said, “I'll bring 'em back soon.”

And with another blink, he returned to his reality, casting Crowley and Aziraphale off into separate worlds. Worlds where they would learn what it would have been like if they had really lost each other in this whole business. _That should convince 'em to work it all out._ Adam nodded, proud of his quick thinking. He'd bring them back in a few days, a week tops, and they'd both be better off for it.

The trouble with his plan made itself apparent rather quickly. Adam woke up the following day to find that reality didn't bend to his will the same way it had the night before. He could make minor changes here and there- wilt the leaves from a bush, for example- but big things wouldn't budge. Within a few days, his powers were completely gone- he was human. And that's when it struck him. He couldn't bring them back.

He sought out Anathema at her cottage- she'd helped save the world, she'd definitely be able to fix this. But as it turned out, when he'd moved around reality, he'd moved around people's memories of it, as well. The events of the previous days were a blur to her, and when he mentioned the angel and the demon from the airbase, she just gave him a worried look.

“Adam, slow down, you've lost me. What's this about the airbase? And I can assure you, there haven't been any angels or demons around. I'm sure if there were I'd have noticed. I could sense it by their auras.” As she looked him over, she seemed more likely to call up his parents than help him figure any of this out. He would need to find another way.

“Forget it, just a game m'thinkin up for Brian and Wensley and Pepper. See you, Anathema.” A lump was beginning to form in the pit of his stomach as he backed out of the cottage.

Adam turned to The Them next. They did a good ol'fashioned seance, but that was a dud. Naturally, the next step was to try a demon summoning. Luckily for them, their runes weren't drawn properly- there aren't too many demons likely to tolerate a summoning by a group of inexperienced children. Finally, Brian even dug out his mum's old Ouija board. But the only spirit they got in touch with was the ghost of “Your Butt.” Adam had a feeling his friends weren't taking the whole thing very seriously. Nothing he was trying was working, and it was really starting to set in- he'd done a Very Foolish Thing.

.

Adam Young did his best to live his life as a proper human. He went to university, got a respectable job with an environmental law firm, married, adopted three children, watched them grow up, and settled into retirement. And through it all, he never forgot about Crowley and Aziraphale, living in the twisted realities he'd banished them to as a daft eleven-year-old boy.

Adam suffered from nightmares. He would wake in the night, terrorized by visions of hellfire and holy water. Of weeping angels and tormented demons trapped in inescapable prisons. And he had put them there. Try as he might, he was never able to find a way to set reality straight. He'd done everything he could- he'd studied under Anathema for years, learned as much of the occult as he could. He'd read religious texts and studied Satanic literature, but as it turned out, this was somewhat uncharted territory. He even prayed to Above- and to Below- but it seemed like no one was listening. Which he supposed made sense, he had robbed them of their war. He probably wasn't on the best terms with either side. One thing became clear to him through his long life- nothing he could do would bring him any closer to an answer- none of it could bring them back.

Adam grew old- he had given up his immortality to live a human life. After ninety seven long years, it was time for him to take the next human step. But he had unfinished business- he couldn't leave without righting his wrongs.

Death came to Adam in the night, wings spread and arms open wide, welcoming him in.

“M'not ready.”

“ADAM YOUNG. IT IS YOUR TIME. COME NOW.”

“Not yet,” He stuck his chin out, daring Death to challenge him, “Y'know things aren't right. I've gotta make 'em right. Can't go anywhere yet.”

Death stood in silence, and Adam crossed his arms over his chest, feeling rather like a petulant child. But he would not back down under Death's stare. Their stand-off dragged on, then Death let out a rattling sigh and flapped his wings, vanishing.

Adam knew there was nothing more to be done- he'd tried everything he knew how. And he knew goading Death was a risky game, but he couldn't leave without trying everything in his power. If there was any chance this could work, he needed to try.

The next night, Death returned to his side again.

“IT IS YOUR TIME, ADAM. LET US GO.”

“I can't go until it's fixed. Can you help me? Can you bring 'em back?”

Death's laugh was like the crack of a whip, like a sonic boom, slicing through the very matter of space and time.

“I AM NOT A PLAYER IN THIS GAME. I AM MERELY THE OTHER SIDE OF THE COIN; THE BALANCE TO LIFE.”

“Does that mean you can't help, or you won't help?”

Death regarded him for several seconds that spanned several years, then with a flap of wings he was gone. Adam let out the breath he'd been holding, something like hope forming in his chest.

The next night Death returned again.

“This would all be finished up quicker if you would help me.” Adam reasoned.

Death brought a skeletal hand to rub between his eyeless sockets.

“PEOPLE HAVE BARGAINED FOR THEIR LIVES. PEOPLE HAVE BEGGED, PEOPLE HAVE CRIED. BUT NEVER HAS A HUMAN ASKED ME FOR SOMETHING LIKE THIS.” Death told him, put-out.

“No one's ever messed up like this before, I reckon. I did try'n figure it out before you got here, y'know.”

“I HAVE GRANTED YOU AN AUDIENCE WITH HER. THEN YOU MUST COME WITH ME. NO MORE STALLING.”

With a grin, Adam swung his legs out from under the covers, sliding them into the slippers he kept by the bed.

“See, now, that's all I was askin' for.”

Death reached out to him, handing him his walking cane and an arm for assistance. Adam took it, and a brilliant, blinding light appeared, swallowing them both.

In the bed, Adam Young smiled in his sleep, a serene smile that erased years of worry lines. He breathed out the sigh of a man finally at peace.

.

_Crowley was standing in the desert, the soothingly warm breeze tugging at his clothes, ruffling his wings which spread out behind him. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the comforting sensation, then opened them to see Adam Young standing in front of him. Only, it wasn't the Adam Young he'd had lunch with just a few months ago. It was the Adam Young he'd stood in this very desert with eighty-six years ago._

_“S'pose this is a dream, then.”_

_“Somethin' like that.” Adam responded, eyeing him critically with the same all-seeing gaze Crowley remembered. It still gave him chills._

_Crowley sat heavily in the sand, picking up a handful and allowing it to flow through his fingers._

_“You know, seeing you like that is unsettling. Pulls up some unsavory memories, if I'm being honest.”_

_“You don' look as bad as I expected.” Adam said, not unkindly. Crowley scoffed anyway, shooting him a mock-offended glare._

_“S'just,” Adam paused, still giving him that studious look, “You look okay. Are you okay?”_

_Crowley looked down at the sand falling through his fingers, contemplating. The sand fell in a steady stream, forming a pile between his feet, but the sand in his hand did not dwindle, nor did the pile at his feet grow. Dreams were really weird._

_“You know, kid, I guess I am. As okay as it's possible to be, y'know? It's never going to be okay- what happened, that is,” he looked up. Adam looked back at him, and there was something like guilt in his eyes, “but I've learned to get on- to make something of it. You've helped me along with that, you know.”_

_“I have?”_

_“You have.” Crowley offered him a smile. Adam returned it, relief blooming on his face._

_“M'gonna fix it, Mr. Crowley.”_

_“M'sure you are, kid.” Something about this dream- about Adam's statement- was starting to sit uncomfortably with Crowley. A niggling feeling at the base of his neck. Despite the comfort of the warm sand, he hoped he would wake from it soon._

_“I really messed it up, but m'gonna get the ending right. I promise.”_

_Crowley wasn't following, but he nodded along anyway. It seemed only fair to reassure the dream kid. And it seemed to be the correct response, since the next thing he knew, a bright light appeared beside them._

_“M'gonna make it right,” Adam said resolutely._

_“It's time to go, Adam,” The light said from beside them. All the blood drained from Crowley's face and he scrambled to his feet in a flurry of limbs._

_“Mother?” He wheezed, stuck somewhere between fear and awe. He hadn't heard God's voice- not in reality and not in his dreams- since his Fall._

_“Hello, Crowley.” The light said warmly, then it was gone._

Crowley bolted upright in bed, shaky and unsettled. There were tears in his eyes, which he brushed away with a huff. The morning light shone through the window, and he fell back onto the pillow, grateful to be back in the comfortable reality of his bed.

Once he'd gathered himself, he grabbed his mobile from the bedside table and rang Adam. He needed to get his opinion on that bizarre insight to his subconscious.

“Hello?” Adam's daughter picked up on the fifth ring.

“Pep! Your dad around?”

A drawn out silence ran down the line. Finally, her reply came, heavy and pained.

“Oh.” Crowley replied, something hot and familiar taking root in his chest.  
.

When Aziraphale heard of Adam's passing, he was knee-deep in moving boxes. It had been just over two years since he'd purchased the cottage, and he had just put the finishing touches on the last of the renovations. It was taking him longer than anticipated to move everything over, but he was determined to do it the human way- there was something grounding- something healing- about it. He was unpacking his collection of Jane Austens when his phone rang.

He had grown close with Adam's family over the years- made a trip to Tadfield every Christmas to check in on them. And he had known Adam's time was coming to an end; human lives were a woefully short affair. And he was accustomed to the realities of befriending humans- he'd lost countless friends over his long existence. But this was different- Adam wasn't like the rest. They'd saved the world together; he'd been Adam's godfather- helped raise the boy since he'd learned who he was. Adam was his last connection to that part of his life- his last human connection to Crowley.

So when he got a call from Adam's son Brian, telling him Adam had passed in his sleep the night before, Aziraphale did not handle it like he did other human deaths. He did not nod and send his condolences with a bouquet. No, instead, he sat down heavily on the nearest box of books, unconcerned for the contents inside, and he wept. He wept for the loss of his friend, and for the loss of everything that Adam meant to him. He wept anew for Crowley, and the fact that he had never had the pleasure of meeting the kindhearted boy.

Then, he dried his face, straightened his lapels, and planned his trip to Tadfield. There would be many grieving humans in need of a bit of grace, and he would be there to help them along. And he would be there to put his friend to rest.

.

Aziraphale knew the impact Adam had had on the community, but it was still inspiring to see the enormous outpouring of support. He was sure he had never seen so many people turn up for a service. He left the reception with a renewed love of humanity and the many ways it continued to surprise him. The Bentley drove him back to London- back to the bookshop- and he felt his heart overflowing with emotions the whole way. There was grief, yes- he felt he hadn't stopped grieving in eighty-six years. But humanity would carry on, as it always did- Adam had made sure of that all those years ago. This was the world they had saved together. And he would carry on with it.

As he arrived home and stepped into the bookshop, he once again found himself wishing Crowley was here to enjoy the world they'd saved. Not even he would have had a snarky remark about the service, it was just that beautiful. Aziraphale wandered through his nearly empty shop, grazing his hands over the barren shelves that had been home to his collections for centuries. He arrived at the back room, the only area he hadn't the heart to pack yet. There stood his old desk and chair, where he'd spent countless hours pouring over pages. And beside it, the comfy, tattered couch that would always belong to Crowley. He shuffled over and lowered himself delicately onto the worn surface, reverent as always, smoothing his hand over the place where Crowley's head used to rest when he would nap here years ago.

On the table between the chair and the couch, there sat one very old plant. It had been re-potted a fair number of times through the years, and its dusty grey leaves poured out from its center, large and fat. It dared not yellow despite the lack of sunlight the backroom of the shop afforded- it couldn't stand the puppy-dog eyes the angel would cast its way when it misbehaved. Aziraphale picked up the pot, cradling it gently as he pet the downy leaves.

“What a day, my dear.” He said gently, conjuring a glass of red from his wine cellar back at the cottage. “You should have seen that service. Pepper gave the most lovely eulogy-”

The plant leaned closer, drawn to the warmth of the angel. It knew it was holding someone else's place, and it was happy to do so. It settled in to listen to the recounting of the day, even forgiving the angel when he poured a bit of his wine into its pot, “just a sip, my dear,” with a wink. It was a comfortable existence, these past eighty-odd years, and the plant rather enjoyed the company. Though there were many days, for many years, when the mutterings it was subjected to left it worried for its master's well-being. But today, as it listened to the angel patter on as day turned into night, things felt okay. _We are going to be okay_ , it thought, content and slightly drunk.


	8. Act III, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Adam's passing, Crowley finds more changes than he expected.

It felt strange for Crowley to stand as a member of the procession, instead of as a shadow on the outskirts. But he had been prominent in Adam's life, especially since he'd rejoined the human race, and people recognized him. Many approached him, shaking his hand and offering condolences. He bared it with a thin smile, but each bit of kindness picked at the barely-formed scab keeping his grief from oozing out. Before long, it all became a bit overwhelming, and he expended a quick miracle, masking his presence and drifting to the back of the crowd.

He stayed, lurking like a proper demon, until only the family remained. He offered what he could to ease their sorrow, pulling some of the pain from their minds, letting it drape over him instead. When the last of them finally drove off, Crowley remained. Darkness fell, and still he was unable to pull himself from the grave. He stared at the unassuming stone, sitting among so many others. That stone was all that remained of his last true friend. The thought made something itch at the back of his neck; made something hot flare in his chest. It made him really want a bloody drink.

Still, he stayed. He couldn't leave yet, not when he had so many questions.

“What the Heavens were you trying to tell me?” He muttered under his breath. “If this was your idea of fixing things, it was pretty rubbish, kid.”

The stone had nothing to say. He slid to the ground and rested his back against the cool surface, plucking a blade of grass and tearing it into bits. Perhaps if he waited long enough, She'd offer him some sort of sign. But as he knew, God wasn't much for signs, not anymore- not unless it was putting someone's face on a bit of toast. And that had typically been him, not Her, hadn't it? He wasn't going to get an answer sitting here talking to a cold rock.

So, Crowley hoisted himself to his feet, regarded the grave and its pile of fresh earth one last time, and walked away. It was a long drive back to London.

The Bentley tore through the dark country lanes, and Crowley's thoughts wandered freely. There were no pedestrians to avoid out here- nothing to keep him occupied- and in the darkness his old anxieties could creep in. He poured over that blasted dream- if it had been a dream at all. What if that had actually been Adam talking to him? Had God appeared just to leave with a cheeky, “Hey, son, know I've been ignoring your calls for the past several thousand years, but I've got more important business at the moment, ta”?

Then, a more sinister thought slithered around him, constricting as it hissed into his ear. _Could have been a trick._ No, that was absurd, he knew, and so he cast the thought away. He stared out into the dark forest, instead, counting the trees as they passed in a blur.

But really, was it so absurd? With Adam gone, it would have been the perfect time for Heaven or Hell to mess with his head. His guard would be down, he'd be distracted. This could be the perfect opportunity for them to finally get their revenge.

Nah, that was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous. Crowley focused on the roads- on the solid yellow line guiding him back to the quiet sanity of home.

But what if the only thing keeping the angels and demons at bay all this time had been Adam? Sure, he'd claimed to be totally human, but Crowley had his doubts over the years. Could the Antichrist really give up all his powers? Maybe he'd kept enough to protect himself- and Crowley, as well, perhaps- from the bitter legions of the damned and not-so-damned. And now that he was gone, they could finally come for him. And what would they do? What could they still take from him? Only one thing.

He'd been gone all day- had left the bookshop completely unprotected. Not so much as a ward around the place. They could have come for him again; the place could be burnt to the ground already and he'd have no way to know. Nothing he could do from this far away.

No, he knew he was panicking, he could feel his blood pumping in his ears, could hear the rasp of his uneven breath. What was that counting exercise Adam had taught him for when he started getting worked up? Something about counting smells- no, that didn't sound right, what was it? He couldn't remember, and now he couldn't call Adam to ask, because Adam was gone. Adam was gone, and Aziraphale was gone, and now he'd probably return to a burning shop and the last bit of comfort he had left would be gone, too.

As he swerved through the London streets, he hissed at every pedestrian that forced him to swerved to avoid them. Go-Sat- _Someone_ , why did he think he had it together? Clearly he did not have it together. He just needed to get back to the bookshop. _If the bookshop is still standing at all_ , that serpentine voice taunted him.

As he entered Soho, he rolled down his window and listened for sirens, looked up at the sky for any suspicious columns of smoke. There were no sirens, only the usual sounds of a busy night in the city. He caught his tongue flicking out from between his lips, tasting the air for any hints of fire. Finally, he rounded the corner and the shop came into sight, and no, there weren't any fire trucks outside. No flames dancing in the windows. The blinds were drawn, and it looked the same as he'd left it. Crowley pulled up carelessly, one tire on the curb, and let his head hit the steering wheel.

“Thank Somebody, you're still here.” He groaned, relief draping over him. He'd gone and gotten himself foolishly worked up. The shop was safe- he was safe. He drew in a few steadying breaths.

“Still need that bloody drink, though.” He got out of the car on shaky legs, pulling the shop keys out of his pocket and fumbling them into the lock just for the ritual of it.

As his hand met the doorknob, Crowley felt his fingers get tingly. He hardly had enough time to glare down at them before it was suddenly like he'd been struck by lightning. A jolt of white hot energy seized his entire being, his vision went dark- he was definitely discorporating. He had just enough time to wonder what the Heavens was going on, when just as suddenly as it came, it was gone.

“What the bloody hell was that?!” He cried shrilly, giving himself a once-over to check for damage. But he looked, and felt, normal- all in one piece. He glanced around. People continued to walk past as though he hadn't just experienced a minor smiting; the sky hadn't opened up with holy light to snuff him out- just a typical Tuesday in Soho.

“I'm really losing it,” he muttered as he hustled himself the rest of the way into the shop and slammed the door behind him, falling against it for support. He _really_ needed that drink. At that moment, he heard a, _Thud!_ , as something hit the ground and shattered in the back room of the shop. Crowley's temper immediately flared to life as he pictured a burglar breaking into the shop, touching Aziraphale's books and rummaging through his personal things.

He looked up and took in the sight of the shop. Or, the lack of shop. There were no books- every shelf was empty. It was all gone. His stomach dropped out from under him. His hunch had been right, after all. Someone had come for him- had come for the _books_. And they were still here. A flicker of fear raced through him, but it was burned away by the wildfire that was quickly building in its place. They _touched_ his _books_. Demon or angel, he was going to tear them apart.

“Oi!” He shouted as he stormed into the back room, “You've messed with the wrong-” He stopped dead in his tracks when he rounded the corner, a cold bucket thrown over him, dousing the fire and freezing him in place. In the backroom stood an angel, yes, but not any that he'd been bracing himself against.

There was that familiar shock of white hair, the faded waistcoat, the blessed _bow tie_. The angel was staring down at a plant, which laid in a mess of broken pot and spilled soil at his feet. Crowley's breath hitched at the sight of him, and then Aziraphale was looking up at the sound, and suddenly those mile-deep ocean blue eyes had him pinned. Crowley's heart leapt into his throat. He was vaguely aware of his sunglasses hitting the ground as he stripped them away. He found himself rooted to the spot, stunned by this holy apparition- this perfect, beautiful illusion.

The angel stood frozen in his own right, eyes wide and regarding Crowley in that windswept way that was so familiar it burned. They stared at each other, completely still, both unwilling to breathe and shatter the vision. Aziraphale looked just the same as the memories Crowley held so close- his hands held together nervously at his waist, that furrow between his brows he got whenever he was worried, or put-out, or pretty much ever. He still had the same blessed _bow tie_ , for Someone's sake. He soaked in the sight greedily, heart threatening to burst from his chest. He knew the moment he blinked- the moment he stirred- it would disappear, so he would never blink- would never move from this spot again. He tried to commit the sight to memory, to absorb as much of the moment as he could before it broke. As he took in the image, Crowley realized that no, the angel wasn't just as he remembered. There were slight changes- drawn-in shoulders, deeper frown lines, a dimness where once he had only shone. Crowley felt himself burning, suppressed flames catching at the sight of the wilted figure.

And suddenly Aziraphale was moving- just a small thing, a tremble of his lip, a hand raised to cover it, and Crowley couldn't bear it. He rushed forward, certain he would pass directly through this echo of his old life. But as he reached out, shaking fingers met the solid warmth of a wool jacket. A strangled sob escaped him, and suddenly they were colliding in a flurry of disbelieving, desperate hands. Crowley grasped at Aziraphale's arms, his shoulders, his hands, reality crashing in waves as he met each solid, corporeal piece of him. Aziraphale was here- he was real- unburnt, whole, _alive_. It was all too much; he could feel himself shaking apart, but then there were strong hands holding him together. Resting gently on his own arms, feather-light on his chest, cradling his face. He looked into the angel's face, wild yellow meeting those endless depths of blue.

“Crowley,” and that was Aziraphale's voice, pouring over him with such reverence. With the sound, the angel's light flooded back into Crowley in a wave. Like a bursting dam, the cool presence nearly knocked him back, the force of it dousing all his caustic flames. It flowed through him, soothing every burn as it went, healing every charred piece, until it reached the torn out, hollow pit in his chest. The cool light rushed forward, filling back in the gutted mess of him, fitting back into the space so perfectly that Crowley sobbed with the relief of it. His knees buckled; he was falling once again- how many times could one fall? But this time there was an angel there, holding him up- softening his landing. He stared into Aziraphale's equally bewildered eyes, and they fell gently to the ground as one.

“I don't understand. Angel, you were-” Crowley managed before his voice broke, overcome with emotion. Then Aziraphale was pulling him in, and he buried his face into his chest, engulfed by the warmth of the embrace. He clung to the velvet waistcoat, felt the body beneath it shaking, and so he clung tighter. They stayed like that for a long time; weeping into the sturdy reality of each other.

Crowley couldn't understand how it was possible that he could be granted this. Even now, with the proof of the angel's presence restored to his soul, he couldn't believe it. But he shoved down all the questions- none of it mattered. Aziraphale was alive, somehow, and he was here, and he was letting Crowley ruin his waistcoat with his unnecessary bodily functions.

With a huff, Crowley cleared his eyes with the back of his hand, quickly returning it to its hold on Aziraphale's jacket. He raised his head to meet the angel's eyes again, fresh tears welling at the sight of the pain he saw pooled there.

“Aziraphale, listen,” he said in a rush, suddenly desperate to lay himself bare at the angel's feet, “I would have never left for Alpha Centauri without you. I didn't mean anything I said back then. You'd've been all I thought about up in the stars- you're all I've thought about for eighty six years. Let alone the six-thousand before that.” He searched Aziraphale's face, looking for permission to continue. Not that it would matter now; the confession was spilling like so many flames from his scorched tongue, unbridled now that he'd lit the match.

“They tore you from my soul, angel. I know I'm not meant to have one, but I can't help it. I think it's because of you- because part of you was living in here all this time,” he grasped at the angel's hand, placed it to his chest, right where his presence lived. He wondered if Aziraphale could feel it there. Crowley watched tears stream from his eyes, felt the hand tighten where he'd laid it, “I didn't mean to take it, I'm sorry, angel. But you gave away that blasted sword, and I was done for. Demon, yeah? Can't really help but do the wrong thing.”

Crowley's throat was constricting as he lost his feeble attempt at composure. He swallowed, swiped stubbornly at his wet cheeks. Still, Aziraphale just watched him, eyes wet but steady, expression unreadable.

“But love can't be the wrong thing, can it? And I love you, Aziraphale. God, I love you. I know it's a serpent's love. Unclean love. But- I can't- it's- it's all I've got. And you don't need to do anything with it; you don't need to touch it. I don't- listen, I don't expect you to want it- I don't expect anything of you. I just need you to know you have it, is all. Because I never told you, in six thousand years, even though it was always there. Always right here, right behind my teeth. And if I've got you back, I just- well- I just need you to hear it. I just need you to know.” His voice faded feebly into the space between them.

Aziraphale stared at him, eyes wide and stricken. He waited, uncertainty coiling around him in the silence. He'd had all the time in the world to think on the things he'd say if he could go back in time. All the words he'd pour out at Aziraphale's feet given the chance. But never had he allowed himself this moment- never had he imagined a world where Aziraphale could actually reply. It was too fantastical even for his fantasies. Now he stared into those unfathomable eyes, knelt with bated breath, mind halted in anticipation. He knew he'd probably said too much- overwhelmed the angel the moment he had him in his grasp. But he couldn't bring himself to regret the words, even in the unyielding silence. He'd learned well enough by now that the regret of words unspoken weighed far heavier.

Finally, with a shaky inhale, Aziraphale spoke.

“Eighty six years, two months, and seven days” he said softly, as his eyes seemed to drift back in time, “For us, it's just a drop in the bucket, isn't it? But without you, it's felt longer than the last six-thousand. Because in all those six-thousand, Crowley, no matter how far away you might have been, you were always right here,” Aziraphale took hold of Crowley's hand and, in a mirror of Crowley's own action, placed it over his chest. Crowley looked down at his hand, felt the beating heart beneath, and tried to stitch meaning into the gesture.

“Dearest,” and the angel's tone was like a prayer, and Crowley wasn't built for worship. He was overflowing- certain his heart would spill out between them any moment, “Unclean? No. Your love was the purest I'd ever felt- purer than I deserved. I was never worthy of it, Crowley, and I'm so terribly sorry for that.”

“N-wha?” Crowley replied, eloquently, comprehension eluding him.

“No, listen,” Aziraphale said, gentle but firm, “I wasn't. Clearly I wasn't, if you could possibly describe yourself that way. You think you kept your soul because of me? Nonsense. Crowley, you kept your soul because the forces of Heaven and Hell couldn't take it from you. You kept it because you, deep down, are _good_.”

“M'not good,” Crowley grumbled, purely out of habit, as he hung on the angel's every word. Aziraphale let out what was nearly a laugh, sparing him a sidelong glance, but continued on.

“I should have listened to you- I had my priorities entirely backward. Whenever it counted, I chose the wrong side. Our side, that's what you said that day. I should have known right then- long before then, truly- I should have been on your side. I failed you, Crowley, and they-” his words were cut off with a choked cry, and Crowley wanted to soothe the hurt from his voice. But with his next breath, Aziraphale had composed himself. He looked back to Crowley with a sad smile.

“Well. I wasn't there. But it looks like we've got a second chance here, now, and I will never let you doubt it again. Yours is the only side I ever want to be on, Crowley, because you are so much better than you think you are. Because you're better than anyone Above or Below. Because I love you more than Heaven or Earth. I love you more than Her.”

“ _Don't,_ ” Crowley hissed, expecting the sky to open up; the ground to fall out beneath them, “you can't _sssay_ that, angel. You can't mean that.”

But Aziraphale just looked at him with so much warmth he could feel it melting him, “I've never meant anything more, my dear.” Crowley shook his head again, until Aziraphale took hold of his face, so delicately, like a dove- like one of his precious tomes- and brought it up so their eyes met again.

“I love you,” he said again, “I love you.”

And the words wrapped around him like the softest blanket and yes, Crowley was melting, he was sure of it. But that was all fine, because he was melting into Aziraphale. Aziraphale- who was here, in his arms, alive. He clung tighter to the wool lapels, certain they were the only thing keeping him upright.

The angel's hands were unbearably soft where they smoothed over his cheek; where they brushed the hair from his forehead. Then he was leaning forward, and Crowley froze as the angel's lips grazed his brow. A kiss was such a human thing, he'd never understood the appeal. Just a touch of lips against flesh- the idea had only ever seemed strange to Crowley, who tried his best not to touch at all, afraid of the damage he could inflict. But here, with the touch of _Aziraphale's_ lips on _his_ skin, he thought he might understand. The delicate affection of the action flowed through him, right to his heart, and he shivered.

His eyes drifted shut as Aziraphale laid another kiss to his temple, the cool touch a balm on the hell-mark there. Then the angel was moving again, slowly, pressing his lips to each of his closed eyelids. Crowley let out a shuttering sigh, felt tears streaking his face again, until they were kissed away. Each movement was extended with such tenderness, and Crowley bowed into each one like a plant stretching toward a ray of light.

And now there was a hand at his chin, tilting it just slightly- a request. His breath caught in his throat as time slowed around him.

Crowley could only offer the barest nod, then their lips met, and it was the lightest brush, but it was all he could do not to break apart. He couldn't help the quiet cry that slipped from him, but then Aziraphale was pulling away, and that wouldn't do.

“Is this alr-” the rest of Aziraphale's words were lost on Crowley's lips as he used his life-line hold on the jacket to pull him back in.

Crowley had heard the words spoken- knew their meaning- but he couldn't fathom the truth of Aziraphale's love. But now, kissing him, he couldn't deny it. Aziraphale kissed him like an offering- pouring out his love and soothing Crowley's soul with it. Crowley kissed back hungrily, desperate to consume every drop granted. It was an impossible task; the angel's love was a river- strong and deep and somehow flowing for Crowley. He hoped fiercely that Aziraphale could feel his own love in return. He would give it all, submit it as a sacrifice at the angel's altar.

They parted- perhaps minutes, perhaps weeks later, Crowley couldn't guess- only slightly, just enough to rest their foreheads together. His eyes drifted open, a part of him still expecting to open them onto an empty room. Instead, he found Aziraphale, eyes still shut, face streaked with tear-tracks. He lifted an unsteady hand, brushing his thumb over the angel's cheek.

“I love you, angel,” he whispered, “I love you. I love you.” Now that he had said it- knew that it was permitted- he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop.

He was rewarded by Aziraphale's gaze finding his, eyes wet, but not with sadness now, no, with warmth and love. It felt like gazing upon the sun; like a freshly-made star, and Crowley was overcome by it. He had to look away, casting his face into the heat of the angel's neck, muttering his love there instead. He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale's middle, tried his best not to constrict, not to steal the life from him. Then he felt solid arms envelop him, and relaxed into the embrace. Aziraphale whispered his own love back into Crowley's hair, the words a soft caress against his crown. The comfort of it was all-consuming; it pulled at him, inviting him to sink in. He wanted to resist- to remain in this moment for eternity. But the pull was too tempting, and before long he surrendered, floating into the welcoming tide of leather and book glue and the faintest hint of rosemary. _Never noticed the rosemary before,_ he thought as he drifted off, _must only be able to smell it from up close._

“Rest now, dear,” he smiled at Aziraphale's gentle whisper, “dream of whatever you like best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! I truly hope this chapter helps soothe some of the pain I've inflicted on all of you! I love these boys and hope I did justice to their reunion <3
> 
> Thank you all, again, for reading- I appreciate all the comments, they mean a lot :)


	9. Act III, Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley heal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final part! Thank you all who have commented, every one has meant so much! It was nerve-wracking to post my first fic, but you all were very welcoming!
> 
> Hope you enjoy these two finally getting the healing they need <3

Aziraphale listened to the rain patter against the window, comfortably warm where he was nestled into the sofa. He'd spent many nights like this one, illuminated by lamplight, a book in his lap. Willing the words on the page to transport him to another reality- any reality but the one that surrounded him. But now all the books were gone, along with nearly everything but this sofa. All those words with all their fantasies sat on shelves miles away, building the blocks of the new life he'd started for himself. But Aziraphale was still here- still sitting in his same old spot, though in all the years he'd claimed it the spot had never really been his. As it turns out, he'd just been keeping it warm. And in place of a book, the very being he'd been keeping it warm for lay curled around him, every feature achingly familiar.

He stared down at Crowley, still as a corpse save for his steady breaths. Aziraphale couldn't bring himself to look away from the gentle motion- the only reassurance he had that Crowley was somehow still here, somehow his to keep. It was such a small thing, there- the swell of his chest as he filled his lungs. The slow fall as he let the air out; the long moment of stillness that followed. Aziraphale held his own breath as he waited, discomfort mounting as the seconds passed. But there it was- the subtle ebb and flow of another breath, sure as the tides. He knew he was being silly- they didn't even need to breathe, technically speaking. But he needed the reassurance, and he wasn't exaggerating about the corpse bit. Crowley looked so frail. Aziraphale had carried him from where he'd fallen asleep on the floor; he'd been alarmed at how easy it'd been. Crowley had always been slim, but there had always been a hint of softness there, too. Now, even in sleep, nearly all of that softness was gone. Replaced by too-sharp edges and a haunted expression. It made Aziraphale's chest ache; it made so many questions tumble through his head, scrambling for attention.

A strand of hair fell into Crowley's face, and with a gentle hand Aziraphale tucked it back into place. As he pulled back, his fingers grazed the mark by Crowley's ear- just the ghost of a touch. With a slight shiver, Crowley leaned his head into the touch, and in the same fluid motion wrapped himself more thoroughly around Aziraphale's middle. _Not all of his softness is gone,_ Aziraphale thought, his heart warming.

There were questions, but they could wait. For now, he contented himself with running his fingers through Crowley's hair- something he'd imagined doing for so many years, during so many drunken evenings. Aziraphale buried his fingers into auburn locks, and thought about dry land. He liked to think that he had learned to live with Crowley's absence. And he supposed that, while it had taken him quite a long while, he ultimately had. He had his cottage, and his books, and all of humanity to look after. He navigated the tides of grief as they came. But the moment he'd seen those familiar golden eyes- that lanky silhouette cross the threshold like a dream come to life- it was as if a massive wave had picked him up and tossed him back onto the shoreline. It wasn't graceful, no, there was a fair bit of sputtering and gasping for air. But sitting here in the quiet lamplight, he was beginning to catch his breath. And with the comforting warmth of Crowley's body against his side, he felt for the first time as though he was drying out. Now he could say with certainty that learning to stay afloat was nothing like the solidity of standing on dry land.

After some time, Crowley stirred. First with a quiet snore, then with an abrupt gasp, he bolted upright. His eyes darted wildly around the room, searching until they met Aziraphale's.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale said, trying for an easy tone, “or, night, I should say.”

Crowley's eyes were wide, fully serpentine and beautiful despite the panic within them. Aziraphale offered him a smile, and he seemed to uncoil a bit.

“You're here,” he sighed, relief plain in his voice. He reached a hand out toward Aziraphale, but then hesitated, letting it linger in the space between them. Crowley's words from his earlier confession echoed in Aziraphale's ears. _Unclean love_. It had wrecked him to hear Crowley describe himself that way. It wrecked him because he knew he'd done that. How many times had he distanced himself, thrown Crowley's nature at him like an insult? He thought about all the moments Crowley had offered a hand- all the times he'd turned away from it. Before Crowley could hesitate any longer, Aziraphale reached out to meet him, lacing their fingers together.

“Yes, my dear. I'm here.” He replied warmly. Crowley stared at their entwined hands, as though that small point of contact might hold answers to some of the mystery surrounding them. Aziraphale was relieved to see his eyes slowly shrink back to their more human appearance.

“You let me sleep,” Crowley said, that touch of panic still lacing his words.

“Oh, yes, well,” Aziraphale replied, adopting a breezy tone, “you were falling over. And it's been a taxing evening, I'd say you deserved some rest.”

“Nuh-uh, no,” Crowley said, his voice still rough with sleep, “never sleeping again. Thought you were gone for a second there. Not worth the trouble. What do I even need sleep for? Demon, remember?”

And there was that terrible ache in his chest again. He looked at Crowley- really looked at him. At his sharp angles and the dark circles under his eyes. There was something dark within those eyes, too- something distant and fragile. He looked at his slight shoulders, the way he held himself- hunched; coiled. Ever the serpent. He wondered when Crowley had last slept. Of course they didn't need sleep, but sleep was to Crowley what food was to Aziraphale. Over the years, it had seemed that their respective bodies had come to need their respective vices. He couldn't imagine Crowley giving up sleep. But come to think of it, he couldn't remember when he'd last had a proper meal, himself.

He opened his arm, beckoning Crowley back to his side. Whatever insidious thought had hunted his friend backed away at the invitation, and Crowley leaned back into him. Aziraphale resumed carding his hand through Crowley's hair, each repetition easing a bit more tension from the demon's frame. After a moment of settling, a quiet sound broke the silence- Aziraphale realized it had come from Crowley.

“Dearest,” he inquired gently as he saw tears streaking down Crowley's cheeks.

“M'fine,” he replied, “s'good, that's all.”

Aziraphale hummed a response, grief for all their lost years welling in his own eyes. He let his chin fall to rest on Crowley's head, breathed in the smokey reality of him. Allowed the scent, still the same after all this time, to envelop him, setting something back into place deep inside of him.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, voice thick, “I know this could be a tetchy spot. Not like we need any more emotional topics tonight. But I have to ask. Did you get robbed?”

“Robbed?” Aziraphale replied dumbly, his mind trying its best to catch up to the sudden topic change, grasping for comprehension and coming up short.

“Robbed, yes. Did someone set up a caper on your shop? Angel. Where are all your books?”

“Oh, the books!” He cried, suddenly feeling rather guilty. Crowley had been sitting here in the empty shop, no explanation for the shocking change. Granted, there had been more important things to discuss, but even so, he must have been terribly confused. “I'm sorry, I wasn't considering how this must appear. It must look a dreadful state compared to the last time you saw it. Oh, I'm afraid it's a bit of a story.”

He trailed off, thinking how best to explain. What was he supposed to say, _”Yes, funny you should ask, I went ahead and bought a cottage for the two of us?”_ It had seemed perfectly reasonable when there hadn't actually been the two of them to consider. But now... Crowley might love him (and wasn't that a marvel?), but that didn't mean that he would want to come live with him in the _South Downs._ That was as far from Crowley's style as Aziraphale could imagine. The whole thing felt a bit presumptuous, now that he was actually here to have an opinion on the matter. Oh, and he didn't even know what Crowley was up to these days. It had been so long, he was sure to have his own life set up, as well.

“I suppose we have time for a story,” Crowley said gently, though the nervous edge to his voice let Aziraphale know he'd gotten lost in his thoughts for too long.

“Quite. Well, er. I suppose, as it happens, I. Well. I moved.”

Crowley sat upright at that, turning to face him fully.

“You. Moved?” He replied slowly, his face scrunched in that adorable way it tended to when he was confused.

“Yes. London was a bit much, after.” He said, and gave an apologetic look when Crowley flinched at the implication. “I found this lovely little cottage in the South Downs. I've been renovating it over the past few years. Now don't give me that look- I am capable of doing a hard day's work when it's called for. I even did it the human way- well, some of the time. I bought this nifty belt you can put the tools right into! Humans, always coming up with the most ingenious trinkets. Anyway, it's kept me busy. And it's the most charming little place. It has a perfectly suitable library for the books; I just finished moving them over last week.”

He tried not to get discouraged at the way Crowley appeared to deflate the longer Aziraphale's description went on.

“And while, yes, London has been home for centuries, the country has been a nice change of pace. Quieter, for one, though I suppose you've always been drawn to the bustle of the city. But Crowley, you can _breathe_ out there. Lots of space, and the skies are so clear,”

“Sounds perfect,” Crowley all but muttered. Somehow, Aziraphale felt this was all getting away from him. He looked away from his friend, busying himself with a button on his waistcoat as he continued.

“That's not even the best part. The garden, that's what sold me. I haven't been able to do a thing with it. You know me- these thumbs aren't exactly green. I'm afraid it's gotten a bit out of control with me at the helm. But I saw it and I thought, 'Crowley would turn this into his own Eden,' and there was nothing for it.”

And now he could feel Crowley's gaze hot against his cheek. He shifted his focus to a frayed thread at the hem of his jacket and determinedly carried on. The thread unwound as he spoke.

“I know you're probably settled in somewhere, and moving is such a bother. Have you stayed in London? Do you still have that flat- the one with all the dreadful concrete? Or have you moved on; I remember how fond you were of Paris? I could imagine you fitting in nicely there,”

“I've been staying here.” Crowley cut in levelly. 

“Ah, so you're still in London.” Crowley wasn't looking at Aziraphale anymore; he suddenly seemed very interested in a spot on the sofa. It looked like it could be wine; which one of them had done that?

“Yes, but I mean here. As in here. As in the bookshop.” He said, flushing red.

_Oh._ Aziraphale thought.

“Oh,” he replied. How was it possible? He'd lived in the bookshop until just a few years ago. They couldn't have been in the same space at the same time. None of this made any sense; what had happened to them? Questions began to rattle around his mind again. He shook them off, settling on a simple one to start.

“All this time?” He asked.

Crowley scratched the back of his neck, letting out a string of disjointed sounds. After a few abortive starts, he managed, “Y-yeah. I-it's just- you were gone, yeah? And it was all that was left, after. And I didn't want anything to happen to it, so I figured, what's the harm? Best just to stick around and make sure everything's up to snuff. Nobody poking around, no funny business. No customers trying to buy anything- know how you hated customers. Nobody's bought a single book, angel, not a single one. A-a-and. Well. It was all I had.”

Now it was Crowley that wouldn't meet Aziraphale's gaze. He suddenly looked even smaller on the old worn-out sofa. All this time. His heart broke for the being in front of him, and he reached out to bridge the space between them. He cupped Crowley's face in his hands.

“Dearest,” he said, his voice full of all the love he could fit into it, “thank you.”

Crowley scrunched his face in that way again, “Don't- you can't just- ngk.”

“For looking out for me- for keeping me safe. You always have. I wish I'd said sooner.”

He expected the words to reassure Crowley- or perhaps to embarrass him a bit. What he didn't expect was for him to close his eyes tight against them, his face twisting into a pained grimace. Deep lines of grief formed in his brow, and Aziraphale felt him slipping away, into some other time or place.

“I didn't, though, did I? Not when it mattered.”

His words cut right through Aziraphale, right down to everything he'd worked so hard to put away. _Not when it mattered_. Images of a pool of holy water flashed through his mind. The image of Crowley knelt before him- beaten and dazed, eyes still full of misplaced hope as their gaze met for the last time. Years of guilt at having been too late. _Not when it mattered._ All of that guilt and all of his grief crawled up his spine, threatening him with the memory of their depths. But no- _no_ \- he wasn't trapped in those waters; all he held dear was cradled in his palms, locked in a fight against his own ghosts. He would not allow himself- would not allow Crowley- to get pulled back into those dark places.

“Crowley,” he said, soft but firm, “look at me.”

And Aziraphale knew that the demon could deny him nothing. That beloved face flinched, but then Crowley's eyes were on him, that vulnerability right there at the surface. Aziraphale could plunge right into it, could so easily join Crowley in his anguish. But now was not the time for mourning; not as long as there was breath between them.

“I do believe they've stolen enough time from us already. We mustn't give them a moment more.”

Crowley stared at him, searching, and Aziraphale hoped that he could find comfort in his gaze. Whatever he found there, it seemed to soften some of the harshness from his pained expression. He sagged in Aziraphale's hands, letting out a sigh.

“Imagine,” he muttered, “this is me with you _here_ , right in front of me. M'sorry, angel. I'm not gonna muck this up before it's even begun. I swear. Big strong demon, me, won't see me shaking apart at the drop of a hat.” And despite his efforts, the smile he cast Aziraphale was threadbare.

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale replied, hoping his smile didn't waver as much, “you've been strong enough for the both of us through the years, Heaven knows. There's nothing you could do to 'muck this up.' I believe now that I've got you back, my dear, you're quite stuck with me. That is. Well, so long as that's alright with you.”

Crowley's eyes flashed back to him as though he'd suddenly grown another set of wings. He huffed out a desperate laugh.

“Alright- alright with me? Six thousand years,” and underneath the exasperation there was so much fondness in his voice, “Then you just say things like _that_. For Someone's sake. Of course it's bloody alright with me.”

“Well, then.” Aziraphale smiled, and this time it felt easier. Crowley's posture relaxed a bit more in response.

“You know,” he drawled, “it almost sounded, for a bit there, as if you were implying I might move to the South Downs with you.”

Crowley crossed his arms over his chest, assuming a casual air as he glanced toward his shoes. Aziraphale could see through the unaffected pose, could see the reddening ears and the tension held in his jaw. He knew, then, that he had nothing to fear. Crowley wanted this as much as he did.

“Oh. No,” Aziraphale replied, and paused. He watched the muscle in Crowley's jaw clench as he nodded, shoulders sagging slightly, “No, I wasn't implying. I was asking.”

And then there was an intake of breath as Crowley stilled, casting them into a long silence. Aziraphale waited, searching his face, beginning to grow nervous. Thinking perhaps he'd misread, after all. Then, Crowley whispered, so quietly Aziraphale might have missed it had he not been waiting, listening for it.

“Ask me again.”

Aziraphale let out the breath he'd been holding. He pulled his feet up beneath him on the sofa and knelt beside Crowley, who still sat like a statue beside him.

“Dearest,” he said, and that earned him a glance; a shuttering exhale, “I never imagined that I would have this back- that we would have each other again. At risk of sounding morose, there was no life without you, my dear. We saved the world, but there was no joy left in it while I had to walk it alone. So I built a world for us; a home for what we could have been, had I been brave enough to take it. And it's _perfect_ Crowley, I can't express how perfect it is. Every day that I walk in the door I think, 'yes, this would have suited us exactly right.' And every day when I've felt your absence beside me, I've had the garden, and the sun-room, where I can all but picture you digging in the soil, or basking on the window seat.”

Aziraphale took a moment to pull out a handkerchief and wipe his eyes, which were threatening to overflow. Crowley had streaks of tears running down his cheeks, and Aziraphale dabbed at them, as well. Crowley remained frozen in place, staring dumbfounded at Aziraphale as he continued.

“I can nearly imagine you've just gone out for a drive; that you're simply out terrorizing the locals with your wiles. I nearly convince myself some days that you'll be walking in the door to rejoin me for dinner at any moment. And perhaps that should be sad, but not for me; it's only ever brought me comfort, imagining you close by. But I don't have to imagine anymore, do I? You're here now, and I want to share the life I've made for us. Move in with me, Crowley.”

Crowley stared at him for a long moment, then he blinked rapidly and swiped at his cheeks.

“Didn't have to get all mushy about it, angel,” he muttered, “s'a bit embarrassing. A simple ask would have been enough.”

“You devil,” Aziraphale admonished, smacking Crowley on the arm. But he couldn't help but laugh; it was the most _Crowley_ thing he'd said since his return. It made a new sense of relief swell inside of Aziraphale.

Then Crowley was moving, suddenly in his space, crowding into him and pushing him back into the cushions. He buried his still-wet face into Aziraphale's neck, wrapped his arms tight around his middle.

“I still think it's possible this is all a farce,” Crowley's muffled voice rose from Aziraphale's neck, “A dream, maybe, or some divine prank. Gonna wake up any moment to an empty shop.”

Aziraphale finally caught up enough to wrap his arms around the slight figure in his lap. It seemed to ease the desperate edge from Crowley's grip.

“I can assure you, I am very real, my dear.”

Crowley pulled back just far enough to stare down at him, and the intimacy of their position flooded him with tender warmth. Crowley hesitated a moment, his hand fluttering uncertainly, before he seemed to steel himself and moved forward, grazing his fingers over Aziraphale's cheek. It was such a simple thing, barely a touch at all, but he was nearly overpowered by the love within it, regardless. He closed his eyes, leaning into the touch.

“See?” He said, somewhat breathless, “real.”

Crowley was quiet, and when Aziraphale opened his eyes, he was met with a gaze of such intensity and reverence that it stole his breath all over again.

“Let's leave now,” Crowley said, “you said clear skies; stars? Bet we can still see them if we leave now.”

Aziraphale chuckled, glancing toward the window.

“Dearest, the sun's nearly up.” He replied, “But we can leave whenever you're ready. There's plenty to see in the daylight.”

Then he looked around the backroom of the shop, remembered the quite empty state of the rest of it.

“Oh, but what about your things? Crowley. Where are your things?”

Crowley looked away, trying again for that carefree persona.

“Eh, never cared much for things. Got the Bentley, got you. What more could we need? C'mon, we talking Brighton? We can make it in an hour, tops. You mentioned a garden?”

Aziraphale thought back to Crowley's apartment, to the sterile chrome and dreary concrete. He had made it look as uninviting as possible, to the untrained eye- one could almost imagine no one lived there at all. But then there had been the plants. And beyond the plants, there were the sculptures, and the paintings. All of them decades, or even centuries, old. It wasn't many things; they'd clearly been chosen carefully over their many years. No, Aziraphale was not an untrained eye. Crowley had things- cherished things. Yet, he hadn't saved any of it. Except-

“Oh!” He cried, startling Crowley as he nearly tossed the demon from his lap. He leaned over the edge of the couch, peering down at the mess of soil and broken terra cotta spilled across the rug.

“Oh, my dear,” he fussed, leaning down to pick up the poor plant he'd dropped hours earlier. It was wilted, and its roots hung in a tangled mess. “I'm so terribly sorry, love, let me just-”

With a snap of his fingers, the pot reformed around the plant's roots. He fussed with the leaves, brushing away some bits of soil and lint. While it still looked a bit more pallid than usual, he felt it did the trick. Only then did he cast a timid look a Crowley, whose eyes were glued to the downy plant.

“Angel, what-” he breathed.

“There are more back at the cottage. Green thumbs be damned, I've kept some of them going. They might not look quite as lustrous as they did back in the day, but I've learned a thing or two over the years. This one's remained my favorite, though; my confidant, if you will. I assure you I don't make a habit of smashing them across the floor.”

Crowley looked from the plant to him, and back to the plant, speechless. Aziraphale extended the pot toward him, offering it up. Blinking rapidly, Crowley took it from him, tracing a finger over one of its fuzzy leaves.

“Angel.” He said again, and he sounded so overcome it brought that ache back to Aziraphale's chest. He reached out, laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, rubbed gentle circles into the slender bone beneath the fabric there.

“We have a second chance.” Crowley said, still sounding as though he didn't quite believe the words.

“We do. Isn't it marvelous?”

Crowley huffed out a laugh and looked up, and Aziraphale's breath caught. He watched as the darkness lifted from his expression; it felt like watching the clouds part after forty days of rain. Their eyes met, that gold glinting with hope, and relief, and so much love- for the first time shown in full, not hidden behind bravado and dark lenses. Aziraphale smiled back, certain he was glowing with all the love he had to show in return.

In time, they would rise from the couch. They would walk out of the bookshop, out of London, and toward a new life. There would be a garden, with the most verdant plants one could find south of London. There would be a library full of rare books, with an express ban on candles of any kind. There would be days filled with drives through the countryside and antiques shopping. There would be nights filled with stargazing, entwined together so thoroughly it would be impossible to tell where angel began and demon ended. There would be years woven together with drunken banter, comfortable silences, and mugs of cocoa. Through all that would be, they would be together. But they had time. For now, there was this. An angel and a demon, sat on a threadbare sofa in an empty bookshop, putting the pieces of each other back in place.

.

“They're not noticing the letter.”

MAYBE THEY WILL NOTICE IT. MAYBE THEY WILL NOT. WE CANNOT WAIT ANY LONGER.

“I wanna make sure they get it. It explains everything.”

SOMETIMES WE DON'T RECIEVE THE THINGS WE DESIRE.

“C'mon, they can't sit there forever. Can't we just wait until they get up?”

NO. COME ALONG, BOY.

“The name's Adam. And 'm hardly a boy. Died of ol' age, didn't I?”

I'M AS OLD AS TIME. EVERY BEING IS A CHILD TO ME.

“You'd think if you're as old as time you'd be willing to wait a bit longer.”

YOU'VE MUCH TO LEARN. IT IS TIME. COME ALONG.

“What's Death need an apprentice for, anyway? Old as time, would figure that means you've got the gig covered.”

Death did not offer a reply. With a flap of wings like a thunderclap, the two figures were gone, as if they'd never been there at all.

**Author's Note:**

> The song Crowley is singing is Love Me Like Theres No Tomorrow by Freddie Mercury
> 
> Again, this is my first ever fic, so thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any and all feedback, and sorry again for the sadness <3


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